Witch Baby and Me At School

by Debi Gliori

  The little boy whose laces Daisy had untied was devotedly trailing behind her and Way-Woof. Occasionally she would turn round and flash him the kind of smile that should have a health warning attached to it. Something like

  STAND CLEAR, HUMAN.

  LIVE WITCH.

  DO NOT, REPEAT NOT, APPROACH.

  You’d think the little boy would want to avoid She-who-turns-laces-into-snakes, but like most of the victims of Daisy’s spells, he has forgotten what she did to him. He hasn’t been put off her at all. He faithfully shadows her round the tractor-tyre sandpit, past the climbing frame and the pirate ship, following her every step.

  Now they’re running round the outside edge of the nursery playground, weaving in and out of the trees and making neeeeee yowwwww noises like aeroplanes. At least, I think that’s what the little boy is doing. I happen to know that Daisy isn’t pretending to be an aeroplane. She’s not going neeeeee-yowwwww, she’s going rrrrroarrrrr because I taught her how last week.*9

  While Daisy and her new friend are being very loud aeroplanes and dragons, WayWoof is having a great time; sniffling, snuffling and bounding up to tiny children and bouncing around them. As far as I can see, none of them can see WayWoof, but I can tell that all of them can smell her. One by one, they shriek to a halt as if they’ve run into an invisible glass wall.

  Then their noses wrinkle up in an expression of horror and they look all around to see if they can find the source of the stink. Since there’s nobody there except Daisy and her new friend, everyone will be thinking, Phwoaarrr, you two smell awful.

  Poor Daisy. Poor little laces-as-snakes boy too. So unfair. Especially when they didn’t make the smell and it was …

  Uh-oh. WayWoof’s gone.

  Oh, help. Spell Alert. What’s Daisy up to? I can’t see her - or the little boy either. Maybe they’ve gone into the Wendy ho—

  ‘Neeeeeee-yowwwwww.’

  ‘RrrrrrrOOOAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!’

  I’m getting a bad feeling. The windows of the Wendy house suddenly turn bright yellow, as if something very bright or very hot is happening inside - I’m running now, as fast as I can, straight into Daisy’s new friend, who is showing every sign of being a small boy in urgent need of the bathroom. Thank heavens. That way he’ll never have to see the vast, snorting, fire-breathing, tail-whipping thing that my dear little Witch Baby sister has turned herself into.

  In the distance I hear a bell ring. It’s probably the bell to let us know that playtime is over, but right now, all I can think about is how I’m going to survive the next few minutes without being barbecued by my little sister. Inside the Wendy house, it’s hotter than the middle of a bonfire. In the centre is a very small, red-hot dragon wearing a furious scowl. At least, I think that’s what its expression means, but I don’t know much about dragons; for all I know, this one may be feeling blissfully happy. It’s squatting on top of a plastic mushroom with its wings folded tightly across its chest and little snorts of steam puffing out of its nostrils.

  It’s also wearing one of Daisy’s hairbands wrapped round one ear.

  ‘Daisy?’ I gasp.

  Two vast jets of flame whoosh out of the dragon’s nostrils and roll across the floor towards me with near-deadly accuracy.

  Uh-oh. Obviously not feeling too Daisy-ish right now. ‘HEY!’ I squeak. ‘Come ON, squirt. I’m on your side. Don’t do that.’

  ‘Not squirt,’ Daisy-the-dragon mutters, but the flames are sort of reverse-sucked back into her nostrils. Phew. I’m boiling hot, but at least I’m not grilled.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I say in my best don’t-roast-me-I’m-family kind of voice.

  The dragon flicks her tail backwards and forwards impatiently. I try not to notice that it makes a loud snapping CRACK every time it straightens out. Just like a whip. Gulp.

  ‘Come on …’ I say, as kindly as possible. ‘Tell me. Perhaps I can make it better?’

  ‘Not kissit better,’ the dragon says firmly.

  ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare to try and kiss it better,’ I say. ‘What’s the matter? Where’s your new friend? Come on, Daisy, let’s see if we can find him.’ Out of the corner of my eye I can see a faint dog-shaped cloud forming beside the Wendy-house door. This is very good news. If I can almost-but-not-quite make out WayWoof’s outline, then Daisy’s dragon spell must be fading.

  ‘Not come on. Not wantit find friend. Want go home. Want MUMMA.’

  Well. That’s clear enough, but Mum’s long gone. I happen to know that she went home to paint the kitchen and won’t be back to pick up Daisy until lunch time. Help. What am I supposed to do with a small dragon that wants its mummy?

  ‘Want MUMMA!’ Daisy repeats, and at the same time she grows several metres in all directions until the whole of the Wendy house is full of hot, cross dragon. I am squashed into a corner, trying to avoid the huge flames pouring out of Daisy’s nose as she bawls for her mummy: ‘WANT MUMMA, WANT MY MUMMA,’ and the flames go Snort, Whoomph in agreement.

  In the intense heat, the roof is beginning to melt. Any minute now it’ll fall in and everyone will see that there’s a dragon standing next to me. Then they’ll notice that the Wendy house is wrecked and then we’ll be in real trouble, and nobody’ll believe me when I say none of this is my fault. It’s not my fault that we had to move house and I had to move school. It’s not my fault that my little sister is a witch, and it’s not my fault that the end-of-playtime bell has just rung and I’m stuck in a STUPID Wendy house with a GRUMPY DRAGON. My eyes are going all blurry and my nose is prickling and, to my horror, I think I might be about to cry …

  … and then a little hand pats my arm.

  ‘Not kye, Lillil. Poor Lillil, ahhhh.’ And Daisy wraps her chubby little arms around my knees and gives me a hug. Then, on the off-chance that Daisy’s hug hadn’t made me feel a hundred per cent better, WayWoof appears, lollops into the Wendy house, licks my hand and then releases the worst stench ever. WOW. Phew. Gasp. Daisy’s back.

  Six:

  Not another squawk

  That afternoon, the Chin is hiding in the hedge outside the little school where Witch Baby has just spent her first morning learning how to be human. The Chin isn’t enjoying the hedge one single bit, and to make matters worse, every so often a bird lands on a twig next to where she is perched and picks a fight with her. Despite promising to use magic only when it was absolutely necessary, the Chin decided that turning herself into a sparrow was a stroke of genius, but now …

  Now she’s not so sure. Now there’s an enormous blackbird hopping from foot to foot in front of her and reading her the riot Act.

  Aaark, awwwk TWEE,’ the blackbird squawks. ‘Tweedle, twirp TWEEET.’

  ‘ShhhHHHHhhhh,’ the Chin hisses, because she’s trying not to attract any attention to herself, especially now that there are people coming out of Witch Baby’s school.

  ‘Aaark, TWEEP,’ the blackbird shrieks. ‘Twitter, twee, aaaAARRRGHHHHH?

  There’s a puff of smoke, and a little cloud of black feathers drifts slowly to the ground. The blackbird has gone, and in its place, wriggling under the hedge, is a very confused-looking worm. ‘One more squawk out of you,’ the Chin mutters, ‘and I’ll gobble you up.’ She flutters down to the ground and hops closer to where two humans are coming out of the school’s back door.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Fox,’ says Miss McPhee.

  ‘Have a good afternoon, Miss McPhee,’ replies Mr Fox, the janitor. He waves goodbye to her, calling, ‘Bye-bye. See you tomorrow, bright and early.’

  Not if I can help it, the Chin decides, identifying Miss McPhee as the nursery teacher and hopping after her. Poor Miss McPhee doesn’t notice the weird-looking sparrow following her until it’s too late. She is halfway down Blackthorn Lane when the Chin strikes. There’s a stifled squeak, a small thud as Miss McPhee falls to the ground, and suddenly, where there was only one sparrow, there are now two.

  ‘Eh?’ Miss McPhee squawks, her beak wide open in shock. ‘What?
Whoooo? What on earth are these? WINGS?’ And, feathers fluttering, she keels over sideways in a dead faint.

  There’s a victorious cackle and the air shivers as the Chin turns back into an old lady with a chin as sharp as a meathook. Checking that Blackthorn Lane is still deserted, the Chin plucks the unfortunate Miss McPhee-sparrow off the ground, tucks the limp bird under her shawl and sets off for Arkon House as fast as her legs can carry her.

  That night, the Chin is still hard at work. Shadows cast by the light of her computer screen dance round the walls of the Sisters’ living room. Over by the sulking fire, the Nose is dozing, and in the kitchen the Toad is still carefully licking the supper dishes clean.

  ‘There,’ says the Chin, rubbing her eyes and yawning hideously. Over by the fire, the Nose wakes with a snort, tries to disguise this as a cough and ends up choking and gagging so much that she puts the fire out.

  ‘Oh, for the love of toadspawn,’ mutters the Chin. However, she’s too delighted with her own cleverness to allow anything to dampen her enthusiasm. ‘I’ve just given myself a job at our little Witch Baby’s school,’ she continues, tapping a couple of keys on her computer. ‘In a few days I’m taking over from Miss McPhee.’

  In a rusty birdcage on the other side of the room, the real Miss McPhee flaps her feathers and swears in Sparrow.

  On the floor beneath her cage, the postman-cat miaows in agreement. The Chin ignores them both and continues gleefully, ‘Tomorrow, the school will receive an e-mail telling them that, unfortunately, Miss McPhee has been called away to look after her sister and will therefore not be able to come to school. In her place, the Education Department are sending a temporary replacement - TA-DAAA – me! Miss Chin.’

  The Nose nods slowly. ‘Y…e…e…e…s,’ she agrees, ‘that sounds pretty good. Nice touch about looking after her sister, by the way. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  The Chin smiles nastily. ‘I was thinking about how I look after my Sisters and how nice it would be if they looked after me for a change. You didn’t think I was going to do all the work round here, did you?’

  The Nose’s face falls. There’s something about the Chin’s tone that bodes ill. The Nose is beginning to get a bad feeling about what’s coming next. ‘Er …’ she bleats.

  ‘Precisely,’ the Chin snaps. ‘So. My plan - and I have to say that I think it’s a very good plan — is that you should make some money. Not too much. Just a couple of bin bags full. Pfff, let’s start with a million pounds or so.’

  ‘But … but …’ The Nose is horrified. A million pounds? WHAT?

  ‘And,’ the Chin continues, ignoring the flappy, fluttery sounds now coming from the Nose, ‘you’d better get a move on because the rent’s due soon and I’ve just spent all the money we had on chocolate and pizza.’

  ‘But … LISTEN!’ the Nose squeals. ‘I have no idea how to make money. You know I can’t read, and can barely count.’

  The Chin rolls her eyes. ‘So?’ she sneers. ‘I can’t teach, but soon I’ll start my job teaching children. The Toad can’t cook, but she smakes our supper every night. It’s your turn. So what if you can’t make money? You can learn. You’ll pick it up as you go along. It can’t be all that difficult. Most really rich people are pretty stupid anyway …’

  The Nose has a sneaking suspicion that she’s being insulted. ‘What are you saying?’ she squeaks.

  The Chin stands up and stretches. It’s been a long, long day. ‘I’m saying, Get a job.’ She yawns, heading for bed, and adds over her shoulder, ‘And I’m saying Goodnight.’

  As the Chin’s footsteps fade into silence, the Nose is almost sure she can hear her sister cackling quietly as she goes upstairs.

  Seven:

  Storm warning

  Dad was right. My new school isn’t quite as bad as I thought it was going to be. Actually, it’s OK with Vivaldi there. Before I really thought about it, I discovered that I was looking forward to Mondays (running), Tuesdays (art), Wednesdays (music), Thursdays (Sticky Toffee Pudding) and Fridays (project: weather).

  I’ve only been here for a few days so I haven’t really made friends with anyone else apart from Vivaldi. There are fourteen people in our class, and I’m still trying to learn everyone’s names. Especially the names of the scary ones. Maybe they won’t be horrible to me if I get their names right. Crane and Shake. NO! No, no, no. I mean Craig and Shane. Oh, help. Craig and Shane, the Wild Animals. Even though Mrs McDonald got us to make and wear name badges on the first day, I still get muddled up. The pictures help, though. We all had to illustrate our badges with something that gave a hint about who we are.

  Vivaldi drew a paintbrush on her badge, then she scored it out, stuck a piece of paper over it and drew a guitar instead.

  ‘Go on, Lil’ - she grinned - ‘I dare you. Draw your bagpipes.’

  My heart sank down to my knees. For one thing, bagpipes are really hard to draw, and for another, I’m really embarrassed to admit that I play them. But a dare’s a dare, so I drew my pipes.

  Just as I’d suspected, my name badge now looks like LILY (the SPIDER). Oh, sigh. But I think the badges are a great idea. I already know the names of at least five other people in my class, and it’s the pictures on the badges that help me remember who they are. There’s Yoshito (the FIsH), Jamie (the GUN), Annabel (the PONY), Donald (the TRACTOR) and Vivaldi’s little sister, Mozart (the FAIRY).

  I have met Annabel (the PONY)*10 and her brother Jamie (the GUN) before. When we first moved here from Edinburgh, Mum and Dad threw a big let’s-meet-the-neighbours party and Jamie and Annabel came with their dad. Both of them were spectacularly sick, and had to go home early. Maybe that’s why they’re not very friendly. Jamie stares right through me as if I’m invisible, and Annabel has a very annoying habit of wrinkling up her nose and sighing every time I come near, as if I smell awful.*11 Fortunately I’m used to this because of WayWoof, who has followed Daisy to school every day and made everyone at school wrinkle up their noses.

  Talking of WayWoof, I can hear her next door. She’s barking her invisible head off. Nobody else can hear her except Vivaldi, Daisy and me, which is just as well because WayWoof is barking very loudly.

  Arf arf AWOOOOOOOOO.

  Vivaldi frowns and turns to mouth, What’s going on? at me. I can’t reply because Mrs McDonald is writing on the whiteboard, and any minute now she’ll spin round and start firing questions at us.

  AWooOoo?

  I shrug and try to ignore WayWoof, but it’s not easy. What on earth is the matter? I honestly don’t think I’ve ever heard her bark before. WayWoof has to be the most laid-back dog in the whole world. You could burgle our house in broad daylight, devour the contents of the fridge and make a bonfire out of all our furniture and WayWoof would yawn in your face, slump to the floor with a sigh, produce an evil stench and fall asleep. So why is she barking? Is something wrong with Daisy?

  ‘Lily?’

  Uh-oh. Mrs McDonald is staring straight at me.

  ‘Dreaming, were you, Lily? Or lost in thought?’ She flashes me a smile and taps the whiteboard behind her. ‘Your thoughts on what we’re discussing, please?’

  YowWWWL arf, arf YIP, suggests WayWoof.

  Help. What are we discussing? I scan the whiteboard behind her. There are several things written on it.

  Weather Forecasting [it says]

  How do we know when it’s going to rain, snow or hail?

  How do we predict sunshine, blizzards, thunderstorms, heatwaves, etc.?

  Oh, dear. For a moment I have no idea. All I can think of is WayWoof, but Mrs McDonald is smiling, as if to say that anything I can come up with will be welcome, so I open my mouth and try my best.

  ‘Er …’ I can still hear WayWoof barking a warning, and suddenly I have my answer: ‘Animals!’

  Mrs McDonald frowns, but it’s a hopeful kind of frown, so I carry on, ‘Animals don’t understand the weather forecast, or satellite stations, or those, er, things that predict earthquakes—’ />
  ‘Seismographs,’ says Mrs McDonald, nodding as if to say - Do go on.

  So I do. ‘Animals can tell if there’s going to be a big storm …’

  Arf WOOF YIP YIP YIP agrees Way-Woof from next door.

  Loudly. Her last yip ripped straight through my head like a chainsaw. This is a nightmare. I’m seriously worried now. Is Daisy in danger? I can barely think straight; however, Mrs McDonald is waiting, so I continue as best I can.

  ‘Er … before a big storm, sheep get their heads down and eat grass like there’s no tomorrow …’

  AARF ARRRF WOOF

  ‘… and gulls and seabirds head inland …’

  YIP YIP HowWWwWL!

  ‘… and, er, and bees stay close to their hives …’

  ARF.

  ‘… and spiders completely abandon their cobwebs …’

  AAARF YIP YIP.

  Mrs McDonald smiles at me, but before she can say anything, Annabel (the pony) chips in.

  ‘We’ve got a weather station on the south turret of Mishnish Castle, and Daddy says it’s even more accurate than the Met Office.’

  Oh, sigh. Annabel is always boasting about her house, her daddy and her pony. It’s very boring. Mrs McDonald’s smile vanishes as if she’s wiped it off the whiteboard. Her voice goes all clipped and chilly and she says, ‘Thank you, Annabel. Now, back to animals forecasting the weather. How do they know? Do they remember bad storms in the past? Or are they reading signs? What do you think the warning signs of a big storm might be?’