Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  Despite it all, they are getting on all right. After horrifying bath times, when Philpot thrashes around flooding the bathroom, giggling merrily whilst bashing Plugugly over the head with a giant plastic duck, he suddenly becomes all loving. He cuddles up in his big white towel, pats Plugugly’s cheek and says, ‘ ’POT LOVE NANA SU-SU.’ That always makes Plugugly’s heart melt, although he is half drowned. Then comes the uncomfortable night, morning time, nappy changing, breakfast, then another walk. That is the routine.

  The two of them are on one of these long walks right now.

  ‘No, Baby Philpot,’ said Plugugly. Philpot was straining sideways at the leash. He had seen a quicksand he always liked to fall in. He had done it two days running and each time Plugugly had had to fish him out. ‘We’s not stoppin’ dere, you’ll get all mucky again.’

  Philpot stuck out his bottom lip. The swamp called to him. He wanted to fall in. Tears welled in his eyes.

  ‘If you is a good boy Nanny’ll give you extra medicine when we goes home,’ promised Plugugly. ‘Now, stay on de parf, dere’s a dear.’

  Philpot brightened up. He didn’t stay cross for long, especially if medicine was promised. Anyway, despite his size he had the attention span of a gnat.

  ‘MEDSIN PEES TANK OO,’ he agreed.

  Something caught his eye ahead, and he waved a massive dimpled arm and went charging off, yanking Plugugly behind him by his string.

  ‘Slow down, Baby Philpot!’ begged Plugugly. ‘Nanny Susan can’t keep up!’

  The thing that had caught Philpot’s attention was a flag. A small, red, triangular flag, hanging limply over the branch of a tree. (In fact, this had blown off the bunting that right now was adorning the O’Lumpick stadium, although neither Philpot nor Plugugly knew this.)

  Philpot liked the look of the flag. He toddled up, reached out, plucked it from the tree and flapped it about.

  ‘PITTY!’ he roared. ‘PITTY!’

  ‘Dat’s right,’ gasped Plugugly, screeching to a halt. ‘It is pretty, Baby Philpot. You play wiv de pretty flag while Nanny sits down for a minute.’

  Scarlet in the face, he sank on to a nearby tree trunk and mopped his sweating brow.

  ‘FLAG!’ bellowed Philpot, his vocabulary swelling by the second. ‘PITTY FLAG, TEE HEE!’

  ‘Dat’s it, you wave it, dat’s de way.’

  Philpot experimentally put the flag in his mouth. No. It didn’t taste nice. He flapped it about a bit more, then put it on his head. He had a feeling it was a funny thing to do. Sometimes, Nanny Susan put things on her head, to make him laugh. He especially liked it when she did it with his plastic bath duck.

  ‘LOOKA!’ he demanded. ‘LOOKA, NANA SU-SU.’

  But his request wasn’t met. Plugugly had toppled off the tree trunk and was lying flat out on the leafy ground, fast asleep.

  ‘NANA SU-SU?’ enquired Philpot. He toddled up to Plugugly and gave him an experimental pat on the cheek. No response. Philpot looked down at Plugugly’s hand. The hand that held the end of his restraining string. Philpot reached down and one by one, bent back Plugugly’s unresisting fingers. The string slithered out. Plugugly didn’t stir.

  ‘PEEK-A-BOO?’ said Philpot. Still no response.

  ‘MEDSIN PEES TANK OO?’ tried Philpot hopefully. But no medicine was forthcoming.

  Philpot stared around. This was getting boring. Nanny Susan clearly didn’t want to play. What should he do?

  ‘WALKIES,’ announced Philpot to himself.

  And he set off into the trees, trailing his leash behind him.

  Some time later, the Goblins were lying around the cave doing nothing in particular when the front boulder rolled open with a crash. There stood Plugugly, bonnet askew, eyes bulging, wringing his hands, beside himself with anxiety.

  ‘He’s gone!’ wailed Plugugly. ‘I’s lost him, he’s gone. Oh, oh, whatever shall I do?’

  ‘Wha— ? Who’s gone?’ enquired Lardo, opening one eye. He had been having a little snooze and didn’t like being so rudely awakened.

  ‘Baby Philpot! I was takin’ him for his walk an’ I musta dropped off an’ now he’s gone!’

  ‘Ah, but ’ave you got the gold, though?’ asked Stinkwart uncaringly.

  ‘No! I hasn’t got paid yet! Dey’ve gone away but dey’re comin’ back soon an’ dey’ll want to know where he is an’ I don’t know!’ howled Plugugly, hopping from one foot to the other in a frenzy of panic.

  ‘So you still ain’t got the gold? After waitin’ all this time for you to come back wiv it so we can go an’ buy sweeties, now you’re tellin’ us . . .’

  ‘Stop goin’ on about gold!’ roared Plugugly. ‘Baby Philpot’s lost in de woods an’ all you can fink about is gold!’

  ‘Ain’t my fault he’s lost,’ argued Stinkwart. ‘You’re the nanny, aintcha?’

  ‘Stinkwart’s right,’ agreed Hog. ‘We spends all that time gettin’ you kitted out an’ sits around waitin’ for you to come back wiv the gold an’ then you goes and loses ’im. So don’t go blamin’ us.’

  ‘I cannot believe dis!’ gasped Plugugly. ‘Dis is a baby we is talkin’ about. Suppose he falls in a bog? Or gets eated by bears? Anyfin’ could happen. What am I s’posed to tell his mummy an’ daddy when dey gets back?’

  ‘Tell ’em they owes you a bag o’ gold,’ suggested Sproggit.

  ‘Is you mad?’ cried Plugugly. ‘Does you really fink dey’ll pay up when dey finds out I’ve lost de baby?’

  A little silence fell while the Goblins considered this.

  ‘No,’ said Slopbucket at length. ‘I s’pose they won’t.’

  ‘Dere you are, den! Anyway, it’s not about de money, it’s about findin’ Baby Philpot before somefin’ bad happens to him.’

  ‘Off you go, then,’ said Sproggit. ‘Let us know how you get on.’

  ‘Me? I can’t do it on my own, can I? We has got to form a search party. Come on, come on, don’t just sit dere!’

  Grumbling, the Goblins climbed to their feet, set their hats straight and left the cave to go baby hunting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A Craaash!

  It was the morning of the O’Lumpicks, and Pongwiffy rose at dawn. Despite an early night, she hadn’t slept well. There had been a lot of nightmares, all based on the forthcoming day and the things that might go wrong. She had dreamed that Scott Sinister had backed out at the last minute, that King Futtout had sailed off to sea with the medals, that the Witches had come last in every single event and, worst of all, that she had tripped over and dropped the flag, making herself a laughing stock, and been thrown out of the Coven by Sourmuddle, who for some reason was wearing a gorilla suit and carrying a tennis racquet. Sadly, there was no special poem or organiser medal in her dreams.

  There had been strange noises out in the Wood too. Even when in the middle of bad dreams, Pongwiffy always had one ear open. There were distant crashings and weird, despairing cries. Baaaby Fiiilll Pot! That’s what it sounded like. She hadn’t a clue what that was all about, but it certainly hadn’t made for a good night’s sleep.

  When the first light filtered through the hovel window, she climbed out of bed, thought about touching her toes, didn’t, and reached for her boots. Pongwiffy always slept in her clothes because it saved time, but since the new fitness regime she had taken to removing her boots in order to give her socks room to breathe.

  Boots on, she glanced across at Hugo, who was snoring heavily in the tea cosy he used for a bed. His little set of dumb-bells was placed within reach. Should she wake him? No. It was going to be a big day for him. He needed all the sleep he could get. Ratsnappy was the Witches’ Weightlifter, and of course, Pongwiffy was hoping that she would do well, but secretly she wanted Hugo to win the gold after all the effort he had put into training.

  Anyway, quite frankly, she wasn’t in the mood for breakfast. The thought of the day ahead was making her tummy churn in a very unpleasant way. Of course, there was the specially commissioned poem to loo
k forward to, but there was a lot to get through before she could enjoy her moment of glory. Best to take a brisk stroll along to the palace and make sure that everything was in place before anyone else arrived.

  She found a scrap of paper and a pencil, wrote gon to staddium gud luk and left it on the kitchen table. Then she tiptoed out.

  It was still quite dark as she walked through the Wood. It was deathly silent too, which is why she gave such a start when she heard the noise.

  CRAAAAASH!

  It was the sound of breaking glass. An almighty smash, followed by a hail of tinkling. It caused her to nearly jump out of her boots. Startled birds took off from the treetops. What on earth could it be? Pongwiffy hadn’t been there for ages, but she felt sure it came from the direction of Sugary Candy’s.

  Heart pounding, she moved through the trees. She felt slightly nervous, but curiosity had got the better of her. Had the Yetis finally come to tear the shop down? Nobody had seen them for ages. Perhaps they had decided to collect all their unwanted stock, which she had heard was still on display behind the unbreakable window.

  When she reached the glade, she could hardly believe her eyes. The crash had come from Sugary Candy’s all right. But there was no sign of the Yetis.

  Where the unbreakable window had been, there was a great, gaping hole. Millions of glass shards lay before it on the ground. And inside . . . inside, in the shadowy darkness, something . . . no, somebody . . . was moving around. An enormous shape.

  ‘Hello?’ called Pongwiffy. ‘Who’s there?’

  Silence.

  She wished she had her Wand. All magical aids were banned from the O’Lumpicks, so she had dutifully left it under her pillow. But something interesting was going on, and she was burning to know what.

  Cautiously, she left the shelter of the bushes and crept towards the shattered window, broken glass grinding under her boots. Heart in her mouth, she peered inside. What she saw made her go weak at the knees.

  Standing in the middle of the shop, in a sea of glass shards and spilled sweets, was – a Giant baby! A Giant baby, wearing nothing but a big, droopy nappy and a huge, face-splitting grin. The soles of its enormous, bare pink feet must have been as tough as leather, because the glass didn’t seem to bother it in the slightest. A long piece of string was attached to its nappy with a safety pin.

  ‘DIN-DIN,’ said the Giant baby, catching sight of Pongwiffy. It gave a delighted little giggle, and waved a huge, fat arm. ‘TEE HEE! DIN-DIN!’

  ‘What?’ said Pongwiffy.

  ‘DIN-DIN,’ explained Philpot patiently.

  He stooped down, scooped up a handful of red sweets shaped like little lips, crammed them into his mouth, slurped and added, ‘MMMM.’

  Pongwiffy didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t a situation she had come across before. She just stood hovering before the collapsed window, trying to make sense of it. A gigantic baby had broken the unbreakable window of Sugary Candy’s, and was happily helping himself to free sweets. Who was he? She hadn’t a clue. Where had he come from? Likewise. Where were his parents? Not around, hopefully. What should she do about it? Well, considering his size, probably nothing.

  The Giant baby crunched and slurped. Sticky red goo ran from his mouth. Very suddenly, he sat down with a loud bump and began casting about for more sweets. He shovelled up two more fistfuls – a deliciously sticky, multicoloured mixture of Minty Stingeroos, Beezi Kneezies and Wizard Wobblers – and rammed them in his cavernous mouth.

  ‘YUM,’ said Philpot appreciatively. He crunched, swallowed and waved his huge arms around, pointing excitedly to the surrounding feast. ‘GA?’

  ‘What?’ said Pongwiffy again. She wasn’t used to babies.

  ‘GA!’ shouted Philpot. ‘GA!’

  ‘I don’t quite get you,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Could you be a little more explicit?’

  ‘GA! DIN-DIN!’

  ‘Well, yes,’ agreed Pongwiffy. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Philpot’s excited eye caught sight of a toppled mountain of broken chocolate bars. He rolled over on to his knees and took off in a jet-propelled crawl. Crushed sweets and broken glass did nothing to slow him down. He was possessed.

  Pongwiffy watched him eat. The expression on his brown smeared face was blissful. Never was there a happier baby. Huge though he was, he certainly seemed friendly enough. He spotted Pongwiffy staring and gave her a rather sweet little wave.

  ‘DIN-DIN?’ he said again.

  It was almost as though he was inviting her to join him.

  Pongwiffy gazed around. Her shock at coming face to face with a Giant baby was ebbing away, particularly as he seemed so amenable. Her brain was slowly starting to work again. Thoughts began to form. Not particularly good thoughts, I’m afraid, but we’re dealing with Pongwiffy here. Here are her thoughts, for the record.

  Sugary Candy’s window had finally met its match. Magic hadn’t touched it, battering rams hadn’t cracked it, hurled rocks hadn’t dented the surface. But a Giant baby had arrived from nowhere and done what no one else had managed to do. How? Who knows. Probably just kicked it in, with bare feet. And now the place was awash with mouth-watering free sweets. Free sweets! After three weeks of munching on raw carrots. And not everything was on the floor. Some of the jars, the ones on the back shelves, remained intact. There was nobody around, apart from the baby. The O’Lumpicks wouldn’t be starting for ages. She had plenty of time. It was oh so tempting. Perhaps just one, eh? One little sweet wouldn’t hurt anybody. She deserved it, didn’t she? A little reward for working so hard.

  Briskly, she stepped through the window. She edged around the Giant baby, who was experimenting with how many lollies he could fit in his mouth at one time. (Thirteen.) She stepped over a mountain of spilled Minty Stingeroos, waded through a small desert of sherbet, marched around the counter, reached up to the top shelf, took down a jar of Hoppy Jumpers and unscrewed the cap.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Hold your hands out. Try some of these. They’re lovely.’

  ‘TANK OO!’ said Philpot, just as Nanny Susan had taught him to say.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Pongwiffy. And popped one in her mouth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The O’Lumpicks

  The sun shone brightly and a warm breeze blew across the stadium which was rapidly filling up. The long queue at the palace gates was getting shorter as excited spectators took their places and the various teams of noble athletes scurried around looking for places where they could change into their outfits for the Grand Opening Parade. The place was a hive of activity.

  King Futtout drooped miserably in his best throne, which had been carted out of the palace and set at the end of the lawn, right by the finishing line. In one limp hand was a list of all the Games, with spaces to write the names of the winners. In the other limp hand was a pencil. Placed on a small table next to him was a box containing his home-made medals. Despite his best efforts, they hadn’t turned out too well.

  His tragic eyes surveyed the wreckage of his once lovely garden. Absent trees. Missing rose bushes. Wiggly white lines all over the lawn. A large podium where his gazebo used to be. A pile of boulders for the Weightlifting. A mound of sacks, a bucket of eggs, a collection of spoons and bundles of ropes. His washing line commandeered for the High Jump. Miles of tacky bunting. Rows of mismatched chairs, some from Witchway Hall and others pinched from his own palace. Chairs which seated the crowds from far and wide, some of whom had arrived a good hour or so earlier in ramshackle coaches which were even now cluttering up the palace coach yard.

  They were a mixed bunch, the crowds from far and wide, consisting mainly of the various teams’ families and friends. A lot of them sported cameras and picnic baskets. Flags on sticks and silly hats emblazoned with the teams’ names were much in evidence. Sadly, there wasn’t much mingling going on. The different factions tended to sit with their own kind. However, they weren’t fighting either. Everyone knew about the good sportsmanship rule. No one wanted
to let the side down.

  You will be pleased to know that the Witches had supporters. Two, to be precise. Pierre de Gingerbeard, the famous Dwarf chef who happens to be Sharkadder’s cousin, was there. He was sitting next to his brother, Wildman Willy Racoon, Sharkadder’s other cousin, who is a famous wild man from the mountains. Both sported Go Witches! badges. That was all, but Witches don’t have many friends. They were lucky to get two.

  The spellovision crew had arrived and were getting their camera and microphones organised. On the bandstand, the Rhythm Boys were tuning up. Filth revved up with a particularly violent drum thrash, causing King Futtout to wince and clutch his head.

  ‘No sleeping on the job, Futtout,’ said a voice in his ear. Grandwitch Sourmuddle was standing next to him, wearing a bright orange cloak with matching hat. She had declined to wear shorts, declaring that they weren’t a Grandwitch sort of thing. Snoop stood at her side, holding a large watch.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said King Futtout miserably. ‘I’m . . . erm . . . just wondering what my wife is going to say.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll get over it. I hope you’re going to sit up straighter than that when we get started. Which we will, as soon as Scott Sinister arrives. Which he’s supposed to, any minute. And Pongwiffy, of course.’

  ‘I think he’s here,’ said Snoop, pointing at the palace gates, where a long, low coach was drawing up, pulled by a team of coal black horses. The number plate read SS1. Scott liked to arrive in style. The coachman jumped down and opened the door with a flourish. Cameras flashed as the great man stepped out, swishing his gold and scarlet cloak and flashing his trademark sunglasses. He was holding a monogrammed briefcase, which contained his poetic commentary. A surge of fans rushed up clamouring for autographs and a teenage girl Troll fainted.

  ‘Where is he supposed to stand?’ wondered Sourmuddle. ‘What do we do with him? Pongwiffy’s supposed to be dealing with this. Oh, where is she? She promised to be here to greet him.’