Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘She’s late,’ tutted Snoop. ‘Very, very late.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that, Snoop. The whole Coven was relying on her to get here early. If it wasn’t the O’Lumpicks, I’d give her ten millionple black marks. Sadly I can’t, because I’ve got to be a good sport. Where’s Hugo?’

  ‘With the Familiars, behind the bandstand. They’re arguing about their flag.’

  ‘Well, have you asked him where she is?’

  Snoop shrugged. ‘He hasn’t a clue. She left early this morning and he hasn’t seen her since.’

  ‘Well, she’d better turn up soon. We can’t start without her. Go and round up all the teams. We need to kick off the second she arrives.’

  Snoop went off to do as he was told.

  Macabre came marching up. She was dressed from head to foot in tartan, liberally sprinkled with glitter. It was an odd combination, particularly the shorts. Sharkadder had got the measurements a bit wrong and they ended at her ankles, in effect making them not so much shorts as longs. In her hand was a furled flag.

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Macabre. ‘We’re supposed tay be starting the Parade as soon as that film star gets his act together.’

  ‘Well, we can’t, can we?’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘Pongwiffy’s not here. We’ll have to get Scott to stall. I said she could lead us in, remember? A promise is a promise.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since now,’ said Sourmuddle firmly. ‘The O’Lumpicks are all about being honourable and fair. I’ve been on spello explaining about it for weeks. Stop looking so grouchy, it’s only for today.’

  ‘Mmm. Well, all I know is she’d better not see me tomorrow.’

  ‘Me neither,’ agreed Sourmuddle darkly.

  ‘Erm . . . excuse me?’ bleated King Futtout. ‘I think the um . . . film star needs some attention. He’s looking a little put out.’

  He pointed limply to where Scott Sinister was waving away Sharkadder, radiant in vibrant turquoise, who was attempting to manhandle him on to the podium. Scott was objecting because nobody had thought to provide him with a glass of fizzy water. Sourmuddle and Macabre hurried off to help, leaving King Futtout alone and ignored on his throne.

  Behind the bandstand, Snoop was getting the teams lined up. It would take too long to describe them all in detail, but here’s a quick summary of how they look. It’s worth it, because they all had a very different take on what constitutes the perfect Grand Opening Parade outfit.

  The Skeletons are in crisp white shorts and black bow ties. The Trolls have gone in for furry loincloths. The Zombies are in tight-fitting suits with half mast trousers. The Mummies (only two in their team) are in their usual bandages, with the unusual addition of top hats. The Ghosts are in traditional white sheets. The Ghouls are mainly in rags, but they’ve washed and ironed them. The Gnomes (including GNorman, who is entering for the Sack Race) are in little red pointy hats and green trousers. The Vampires are in black cloaks lined with scarlet, and smell strongly of toothpaste. The Banshees are in their best nighties, and weeping already at the thought that they might not win. The Familiars are all different shapes, sizes and species, so they haven’t bothered to dress up in anything special. That’s why they’ve put so much thought into their flag, which even at this late stage is causing dissent. They’ve finally gone with Vernon’s black letters on a white sheet idea, but none of the Cats are happy.

  There are two teams with only one member. These are the time-wasting Werewolf, wearing his best trousers and brandishing a relay baton, and Ronald in his yellow shorts, trying not to look guilty about what is in his pocket. (An egg glued to a spoon. Tut tut.)

  Lining up first are the Witches in their technicolour cloaks, hats and matching shorts. In terms of vibrancy, they have certainly won the day, although it hurts your eyes to look at them.

  The Familiars came next. Snoop scuttled up to give them their last minute instructions.

  ‘Have you all got your flags ready?’ he enquired. Nervous nods all round. ‘Well, keep them furled until it’s your turn to march in.’

  ‘How do we know when that is?’ asked Barry the Vulture.

  ‘Just listen out for your poem. Mr Sinister’s written some special verses in honour of the occasion. The minute you hear your name, you’re on. He’ll say a few words first, though. We’re playing for time because Pongwiffy still hasn’t arrived.’

  Everyone turned and looked enquiringly at Hugo, who shrugged and mumbled, ‘Don’t ask me.’

  Encouraged by Sourmuddle, twittered at by Sharkadder and prodded firmly by Macabre, Scott finally consented to mount the podium. Spectators hurried back to their seats, consulting their programmes, adjusting their binoculars, taking up their flags and finishing off their sandwiches. Filth began a little drum roll, then stopped when he saw Sourmuddle glaring and shaking her head. Apparently, they weren’t quite ready.

  Aware that all eyes were upon him, Scott slipped into professional superstar mode. He clicked open his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers. Sharkadder came rushing up with his glass of water, then scuttled away to join the Witch team.

  Scott waited until all the coughs died down. The spellovision crew moved in for a close-up. Taking his time, he arranged his papers, then took up the megaphone that Pongwiffy had thoughtfully supplied. He took a deep breath, then his sonorous voice rolled around the stadium.

  ‘Friends,’ said Scott. ‘My very good friends. You all know me. Scott Sinister, the famous star of stage and screen, who has condescended to come here today and be your commentator. What’s more, I’m doing it for free.’

  He paused for applause, which dutifully came. He flashed his sunglasses, smiled for the camera and added, ‘By the way, I’ve got a new film coming out, so fans, take note. But enough about me. I’ve got a job to do.’ His voice became solemn. ‘We are gathered here together on this glorious morn for an historic occasion. A momentous occasion. An occasion which, in a long line of occasions, stands out as the occasion which . . .’

  ‘Get on with it!’ shouted a cheeky Gnome in the front row. He wasn’t a fan.

  ‘As I was saying,’ continued Scott, glaring at the heckler. ‘An occasion which is probably the best occasion Witchway Wood has ever had. The O’Lumpicks!’

  He threw up his arms, and the place exploded with thunderous clapping and ringing cheers.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Scott emotionally. ‘Yes! Raise your voices! Let’s hear it for the very first Witchway Wood O’Lumpick Games!’

  ‘Hooray!’ screamed the crowds, leaping on seats and waving flags.

  ‘Fitness!’ cried Scott. ‘Health, fitness and dedication. That’s what the O’Lumpicks are all about.’

  ‘And shorts!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Yes! And shorts. And noble participation. And a lot of other stuff, but enough of that. We want to move on, don’t we? The Games must commence! For your delight and amazement, we begin with a Grand Opening Parade . . .’

  ‘Not yet,’ hissed Sourmuddle from the sidelines.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Keep talking. We’re not ready to start.’

  ‘Eh? Why not?’

  ‘Pongwiffy hasn’t arrived. She leads us in.’

  Scott frowned. He hadn’t prepared for this. He liked to stick to a script. Improvisation wasn’t his strong point. But the audience was getting restless. The spellovision camera was trained on him and he had to say something.

  ‘Ahem. Before we start the Parade, just a bit more about me. Not everyone knows this, but as well as an actor I’m a bit of a poet in my spare time. You’ll be amazed to hear I’ve written my commentary in poetic verse. Now, I don’t know if any of you have ever tried this, but it’s not easy. Finding the right rhyme takes a lot of effort. For instance, nothing rhymes with orange. There are many other words which prove difficult. Juggernaut, for example. Palaeanthropological. Zigzag, that’s a hard one. Um . . . rhubarb . . .’

  Back at Sugary Candy’s, it was a very different scene. Philpot
lay in a sticky heap on the floor. His face was covered in chocolate and streaked with multicoloured trails of encrusted dribble. He was a total mess – and blissfully happy. Together, he and his new friend had eaten their way through enough sweets and chocolate to sink a barge.

  Philpot felt great, but his new friend wasn’t looking so good. She was stretched out on the counter, eyes tightly shut, groaning and looking green. Philpot heaved himself into a sitting position. It took some effort because he was lying on a heap of melted toffee and his back was stuck to the floor.

  ‘WALKIES?’ said Philpot brightly, reaching up and patting her on the cheek with a revoltingly sticky hand.

  ‘What?’ moaned Pongwiffy. With an effort, she sat up. ‘Oooh. Where am I? What’s happening? What time is it?’

  Groggily, she looked around. Bright sunlight poured through the broken window. It made her head ache.

  Wait a minute. Sunlight? When she had first entered the shop, the sun hadn’t even risen properly. Could she have dropped off for a minute or two? In between finishing off the jar of Gloopy Guzzlers and getting stuck in to the Minty Stingeroos? It was all a bit of a blur. Something niggled at the back of her mind, though. She was supposed to be somewhere. There was something very important that –

  Oh. Oh dear. Oh deary deary dear. In fact – arrrrrrrrgh!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Late Again

  ‘. . . and then there’s garlic,’ Scott told the puzzled crowd. ‘That’s a tricky one. And spontaneous. I’d defy anyone to find a rhyme for that. Anyone know a word that rhymes with spontaneous?’ Deafening silence greeted this. ‘No? I thought not.’

  He took out a large white hanky and mopped his brow. He was feeling faint and his mouth was horribly dry, unlike the rest of him, which was bathed in perspiration.

  ‘Keep going,’ hissed Sourmuddle.

  ‘I’m not sure I can,’ croaked Scott. ‘I’m losing my voice.’

  ‘You’re losing their interest too,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Say something different before they start throwing things.’

  She was right. The crowds were clearly getting bored with being lectured about poetry. They wanted the Grand Opening Parade. Someone started a slow hand clap, which was taken up with enthusiasm by athletes and supporters alike.

  Scott reached out a trembling hand and took another swig from his water glass. He didn’t think he could go on. His mind was blank. Not only could he not think of any more words that didn’t rhyme with any other words, he couldn’t think of any words at all. He had done what all actors dread. He had dried up.

  And then he was saved. All heads turned as the palace gates opened with a loud clang, and a familiar, dishevelled figure stood framed in the gap. She had lost her hat and was panting heavily.

  The slow clapping died away. A breeze blew. Somebody coughed.

  Grandwitch Sourmuddle said nothing. She simply beckoned with a single curling finger.

  Poor Pongwiffy. It was a horrible moment.

  She set off on the long walk. The spellovision camera swivelled, capturing her every move. After what seemed like a week, she arrived at the podium.

  ‘Late,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Embarrassingly, ludicrously, unbelievably late.’

  ‘Mmm . . . yes,’ agreed Pongwiffy, adding rather feebly, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fell out of bed, banged my head, unconscious for hours,’ explained Pongwiffy, and immediately came out in the pesky green spots. So everyone knew she was fibbing.

  ‘Oooh,’ muttered the crowd disapprovingly. ‘Fibber.’

  ‘Spots,’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘Try again.’

  ‘Lost my memory?’

  ‘No, you didn’t. Tell me another one.’

  ‘Kidnapped by pirates?’

  ‘More spots. Getting really bad now,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Let’s see how long before they all join up and you become one big green boil. I’m rather enjoying this. Do keep going.’

  The entire watching arena nodded. Sport could wait. The Grand Opening Parade could wait. Watching Pongwiffy try to wriggle her way out of this one would provide a whole new world of entertainment. It certainly made a change from poetry.

  Pongwiffy took a deep breath. There was nothing else for it. She would have to tell the truth. After all, this was the O’Lumpicks. They were supposed to be noble and truthful and fair. You shouldn’t really tell fibs on a day like this.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Here’s the truth. There’s a wild Giant baby loose in the Wood. I saw him. He’s broken the window of Sugary Candy’s. He’s in there scoffing free sweets. I’ve been trying to drive him off, and that’s why I’m late. If you don’t believe me, go and look for yourselves.’

  It wasn’t entirely a lie, although Pongwiffy can’t resist an embellishment and it still veered slightly from the absolute truth. The spots subsided a little.

  From all around came a muttering. The muttering grew to a grumbling. Little conversations were breaking out. What was this? The unbreakable, magically fortified, impregnable window of Sugary Candy’s had finally given way?

  There were free sweets?

  Sweets. Ooh, that word! It leapt out from the sentence, overshadowing anything that had gone before, including even interesting words such as wild, Giant, baby and loose in the Wood. Sweets. That was the important word, the one that everyone heard, the one they fixated on. And it brought back such memories. Memories of what it was like going to Sugary Candy’s before the O’Lumpicks took over. The fun. The anticipation in the queue. Drooling over the labels, wondering what to buy. Placing the order. Parting with your life savings. Coming away with a thousand crackling packages of gooey stickiness. Hurrying home, switching on the spello and diving in!

  Everyone forgot the bad things, of course. How you always felt sick in the end. The tooth troubles. The spots, the flabby tummies, the lack of get-up-and-go, the sheer expense. All they remembered was the wonderful, glorious, utterly all-consuming taste.

  There was a collective intake of breath. A sort of vast, communal, gasping sigh.

  And then . . .

  STAMPEEEEEEEEDE!!!

  The audience rocketed from their seats and, as one, charged for the gates. And not only the audience. The podium rocked threateningly as hordes of well-honed, treat-starved teams of athletes surged past, all thoughts of health, fitness, intermingling, sportsmanship, games, medals and even shorts abandoned. Replaced by a single, primal thought.

  Sweets!

  Within a matter of moments, Pongwiffy was alone in an empty garden. Well, alone apart from King Futtout, who was unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from his throne, which had been unceremoniously overturned by the mob. And Scott Sinister.

  ‘Well,’ said Scott after a long silence. He gathered up his carefully composed verses and placed them in his briefcase, which he closed with a sharp little click. ‘I take it my services are no longer required.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Pongwiffy sadly.

  ‘Yet again, all ends in chaos.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I won’t say I told you so,’ said Scott bitterly. ‘I won’t say I knew it. I won’t say your wretched O’Lumpicks are clearly an unmitigated disaster and it’s all your fault.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Pongwiffy. ‘Probably not a good idea to say those things right now.’

  ‘I’ll be off, then,’ said Scott. Very deliberately, he dropped his megaphone on to the podium and stamped on it. It splintered into a thousand small pieces.

  Then he stepped down from the podium and paused. ‘One last thing. Don’t ask me for any more favours. Ever again.’

  Pongwiffy watched him stalk off, picking his way between broken flags, torn banners, forgotten picnic baskets, hats, vibrant cloaks, odd shoes, a cabbage, trampled carrots and other abandoned items.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Pongwiffy as he strode through the gates. She had just thought of something. ‘What about my special poem? I know you’ve written one, Hugo told me!’

  What
Scott said was short, sharp and luckily unintelligible. You could tell it was rude, though.

  There came the sound of a coach moving off at high speed – and he was gone.

  That was that, then.

  Slowly, Pongwiffy sat down on the edge of the podium. She felt – crushed. After all that effort, everything she had worked for had come to nothing. There would be no flag bearing. No Grand Opening Parade. No Games. No one would ever intermingle. No medals would be won. The dream was over.

  And to crown it all, she had given in and pigged out on sweets, after all the effort she’d put into getting fit.

  Of course, she wasn’t alone. By now, she had no doubts that everyone was swarming over Sugary Candy’s like ants on a sugar mountain, fighting over the best stuff, filling their hats and pockets and cramming their mouths like there was no tomorrow.

  But she of all people should have been stronger. Or at least kept her mouth shut and said nothing. At the next Coven Meeting there would be Big Trouble. Sourmuddle would order an inquiry. She would get blamed for everything, as usual. Nothing had changed. She was still the same old Pongwiffy.

  ‘But fitter,’ said a voice at her elbow. Hugo was sitting next to her, little legs swinging.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ muttered Pongwiffy. ‘What did you say?’ She hadn’t realised she had spoken out loud.

  ‘Still same but fitter.’

  Pongwiffy shrugged. Somehow, without the spur of the O’Lumpicks, the whole fitness thing had lost its charm. She didn’t care any more.

  ‘You OK?’ said Hugo. Pongwiffy didn’t go in for silence often. It wasn’t her style.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ she said.

  ‘Lost your hat?’

  ‘Yes. During my mad dash to get here. Not that it mattered.’

  ‘Is true about wild Giant baby?’

  ‘Yes. I said, didn’t I?’

  ‘You try to drive wild Giant baby out of sweet shop? All by yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, all right?’ The spots returned, but Hugo didn’t mention it.