by Kaye Umansky
‘You should have been like me. Just brought the one bag,’ said Pongwiffy, holding up a particularly tatty plastic one from Swallow and Riskitt that looked as though it had been used to strain curry.
‘I wouldn’t even put Dudley’s fish heads in there,’ said Sharkadder with scorn. ‘Yuck!’
‘Why can’t you get fish heads in Sludgehaven-on-Sea?’ Pongwiffy wanted to know. ‘You’re daft, you are. I’ll bet you can buy any amount of fish heads there.’
‘Not the sort he likes,’ said Sharkadder firmly.
Just then, the coach went into a deep pothole. Things came clattering down from the luggage racks. Everyone lurched and fell about. Greymatter made a mistake on her crossword puzzle. Macabre’s bagpipes went off with a wild cry. Bonidle almost woke up. Sludgegooey dropped a bag of sherbet all over Ratsnappy and Gaga’s bats flapped wildly.
‘Bother!’ said Sharkadder, who now had a trail of sea-green lipstick going up her nose. ‘Now look!’
Ribald jeers and the jolly strains of ‘For He’s a Jolly Bad Driver’ rose from the back seat. The driver (a bad-tempered Dwarf called George) tightened his grip on the wheel and did some terrible gear-clashing.
‘Told you so!’ grumbled Macabre from across the aisle. She was squashed uncomfortably between her bagpipes and Rory. ‘Gi’ me a Broomstick any day!’
‘When do we stop for lunch?’ bawled Bendyshanks. ‘Oi! Driver! When do we stop for lunch?’
‘There’s no stops,’ said George firmly.
There was immediate consternation. No stops? All the way from Witchway Wood, over the Misty Mountains to Sludgehaven with no stops? After all those cups of bogwater?
‘What d’you mean, no stops?’ enquired Sourmuddle dangerously.
‘Not on my schedule,’ George informed her smugly. He wrenched the wheel, purposely swerving in order to drive through a big puddle, thereby spattering with mud a Gaggle of rainsoaked Goblins who, for some strange reason, were trudging slowly in single file along the middle of the road.
‘I don’t do stops on this run.’
‘Oh yes you do,’ said Sourmuddle briskly, and twiddled her fingers. Much to everyone’s delight, George’s cap immediately rose from his head and sailed gaily out of the window.
Muttering under his breath, George slammed on the brakes and the coach juddered to a halt. To a chorus of loud jeers he dismounted and stumped back to pick up his cap from where it had landed – in the large, muddy puddle he had just driven through. He bent down to retrieve it – then became aware that he was being watched by seven pairs of accusing eyes. They belonged to the rainsoaked Goblins he had just splashed with mud.
(Of course, they weren’t just any old Goblins. They were Plugugly, Slopbucket, Hog, Eyesore, Stinkwart, Sproggit and Lardo, who were on their way to Gobboworld with packs on their backs, sticks in their hands and a dream in their hearts.)
And now they had mud on their faces as well.
‘I suppose you enjoyed dat,’ said Plugugly. ‘Splatterin’ us wiv mud like dat. I suppose dat gave you a great big larf.’
‘Yep,’ said George. ‘As a matter o’ fact, it did.’
‘Let’s do ’im over, Plug,’ urged young Sproggit, jumping up and down and waving his fists. ‘Come on, come on, let’s scrag ’im! Let’s roll ’im in the mud and throw ’is ’at in a bush!’
‘Oh yeah?’ said George smugly, jerking a thumb towards the coach, where the Witches had started up a hearty rendition of ‘Why are We Waiting?’ ‘An’ leave that lot without a driver? I don’t fink so, some’ow.’
And with a confident air, he clapped his cap on his head and turned his back. The Goblins watched helplessly as he climbed in and the coach pulled away, belching exhaust fumes. The last thing they saw as it hurtled off around the corner was Agglebag and Bagaggle in the back seat, laughing merrily while making identical rude gestures.
‘ ’Ow come nuffin’ ever goes right for us, Plug?’ asked Lardo sadly when they had all finished choking.
‘I dunno,’ said Plugugly with a sigh. ‘But it’ll be all right when we get to Gobboworld,’ he added more cheerfully. ‘Come on, lads. We gotta long way ter go. Best foot backward.’
‘There’s somethin’ wrong wiv that,’ pondered Hog with a little frown. ‘But I’m blowed if I can fink wot.’
And with great heavings and sighs and doleful head-shakings, the Goblins picked up their sticks and followed in Plugugly’s wake.
CHAPTER NINE
A Tent in the Garden
‘Cyril! They’re here! Have you hidden the silver?’
‘Yes, my love.’
‘Did you spread the newspaper in the hall? I don’t want them treading on my carpets.’
‘All done, my love.’
‘What are you doing now, Cyril?’
‘Halving the candles like you told me, my love.’
Outside, as dusk fell, the parched, hungry, weary travellers clustered at the gate and peered nervously up the path of Ocean View. There was something very forbidding about the scrubbed white doorstep, the thick lace curtains and the various signs reading NO HAWKERS, NO CIRCULARS, NO GOBLINS and POSITIVELY NO MAGIC.
‘I don’t like the look of it,’ whispered Pongwiffy to Sharkadder, who was redoing her lipstick. ‘Too clean by half.’
‘I don’t know why it’s called Ocean View, do you?’ asked Sharkadder. ‘I can’t see a glimpse of the ocean from here.’
‘You might if you climbed on the chimney,’ said Pongwiffy doubtfully. ‘And had a very strong telescope.’
‘Quiet over there!’ commanded Sourmuddle. ‘Gather round, everyone – I’m about to give a pep talk. Now, this is a charming family-run guest house, and we’ve never stayed in one of those before. The landlady’s name is . . . What is it, Snoop?’
‘Mrs Molotoff,’ Snoop told her.
‘That’s it. So it’s Yes, Mrs Molotoff, No, Mrs Molotoff, Thank you very much, Mrs Molotoff. Understand? You’ve got to obey the House Rules. Be polite at all times.’
Sourmuddle was a great one for rules. Even other people’s, provided they didn’t conflict in any major way with her own.
‘Polite?’ protested Macabre. ‘Ah’ve never been polite in ma life. Witches dinnae have tae be polite.’
‘They do when they’re staying in guest houses,’ said Sourmuddle firmly. ‘I’m not having it said that Witches don’t know how things are Done. I want all of you to say “Please” and “Thank you” and “Could I trouble you to pass the spiderspread?” and things like that. Of course, they might not have spiderspread. That’s another thing. There might be all sorts of strange food. If in doubt, take your cue from me. I’m not Grandwitch for nothing. I’ll show you how it’s Done. Right. Put your best faces on – I’m going to ring the bell.’
But she didn’t have to, for at that moment the front door opened and Mrs Molotoff, brandishing a large feather duster like a whip, strode out on to the top step and gave them a Look. It was the sort of Look that people wear when they discover something nasty living in their salad. The Witches’ best Sunday-go-visiting smiles started up, tried to get going, then dwindled away to nothing. All except Sourmuddle, who glowed away like a beacon in a fog, showing them all how it was Done.
‘Are you the Witchway party?’ demanded Mrs Molotoff. ‘You’re late. I hope you’re not expecting any supper. Who’s in charge here?’
‘Me,’ beamed Sourmuddle, all sweetness and light. ‘Grandwitch Sourmuddle, Mistress of the Witchway Coven. Soooo pleased to meet you. What a delightful place you have here. So – scrubbed.’
‘Hmm. What have you got in the way of Familiars?’
‘Three Cats, a Vulture, an Owl, a Demon, a Fiend, a Sloth, a Rat, a Haggis, a Snake, some Bats and a Hamster,’ obliged Sourmuddle helpfully. ‘All completely guest-house-trained, of course.’
‘Well, they’re banned from the bathroom. And I’ll thank you to keep them in order. This is a respectable household and I don’t want any carryings-on. That applies to all of you.�
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‘Carryings-on? What, my girls? Never!’ cried Sourmuddle, hand on her heart.
‘Hmm. Well, we’ll see. In you go, wipe your feet, straight upstairs, four to a room, no bouncing on the furniture, no snakes on the bed, Brooms in the shed, no noise after sundown, breakfast at seven sharp. And may I remind you that a strict No Magic Rule is in force here. Any Magical equipment you may have about your person is to be locked away in my cupboard, to be signed for and returned upon your departure.’
‘Lovely, lovely, whatever you say, that’ll be just fine,’ cooed Sourmuddle. ‘No problem at all. I’m sure our valuables will be quite safe in your delightful cupboard. I, of course, will be keeping my Wand with me. Official purposes, you understand. You heard our charming hostess, ladies. In you go.’
And everyone picked up their cases and trooped in, meek as lambs, under Mrs Molotoff’s steely gaze.
‘Not you,’ said Mrs Molotoff, barring Pongwiffy’s way. ‘You with the pet Hamster and the horrible smell. I’ve just polished.’
Dudley broke into a delighted grin. Up on Pongwiffy’s shoulder, Hugo began to bristle as he always does when anyone mentions the three-letter ‘P’ word.
‘Oh, but she has to come in! She’s sharing with me and Dudley,’ cried Sharkadder loyally. ‘In fact, the whole holiday was her idea. Don’t scratch Mummy, Dudley. It’s not nice. Pongwiffy’s our friend. I refuse to be parted from her.’
‘Well, she’ll have to sleep in a tent in the garden. I’m not having her indoors.’
Pongwiffy opened her mouth to argue, caught Sourmuddle’s warning look and decided against it.
‘Will you come with me, Sharky?’ she asked.
‘Er – no, actually,’ said Sharkadder, not so loyally.
‘What, you mean you’ll desert me in my hour of need?’ wailed Pongwiffy.
‘Dudley and I are not sleeping in a tent for anyone,’ said Sharkadder firmly. ‘Not without a proper dressing table.’
‘But you promised you’d share! You promised!’
‘Oh, stop all this nonsense, Pongwiffy dear,’ said Sourmuddle, smiling, with a threatening glint in her eye. ‘In you go, Sharkadder. Thank Mrs Molotoff for the tent, Pongwiffy. Where are your manners?’
‘Oh lovely!’ said Pongwiffy between clenched teeth. ‘Thanks very much. A tent in the garden, you say? What could be nicer?’
‘A tent in ze garden, eh? Vot could be nicer?’ mocked Hugo as they huddled under canvas later that night. A fine sea mist coiled and curled around the tiny tent erected on the minute patch of lawn which was the garden.
Over in the garden shed the Brooms could be heard rustling around, sweeping their own little bit of floor space and squabbling with a couple of resident deckchairs in Wood (by all accounts a very difficult language to master).
Flickering lights shone from the bedroom windows of Ocean View as the subdued guests tiptoed around with their half-candles, trying to unpack and arguing over the sleeping arrangements in whispers. Every so often, the stern voice of Mrs Molotoff would ring out, reminding them of the Rule about NO NOISE AFTER SUNDOWN.
‘Oh, stop complaining,’ said Pongwiffy with a yawn. ‘I’d sooner sleep out here anyway. I don’t like the look of it in old Molotoff’s. Much too strict. And did you see how clean it looked? Ugh! And who wants to share a room with rotten old Sharkadder anyway? No, it’s nice out here under the stars. Come on, let’s get to sleep. We must be up bright and early tomorrow. We’ve got a busy day before us.’
‘Vot ve do first? Go svimmink?’ asked Hugo, eyes round with excitement.
‘What, in all that water? Not likely. No, tomorrow morning first thing, we’re going to hit the pier. That’s where all the action is. It says so in the brochure. Now, go to sleep.’
‘OK,’ said Hugo, curling up with a little sigh. ‘But your smell has a lot to answer for.’
‘I’m a Witch of Dirty Habits. We must all suffer for what we believe in. Oh my badness! Whatever is that noise?’
From far away, further along the coast, borne on the night breeze, came a hideous sound. It was a combination of nails scraping on blackboards, burglar alarms and dustbin lids blowing down the road. Yes. It was the unmistakable sound of Goblin music.
Gobboworld had opened.
GOBLIN NEWSFLASH 1
We interrupt this story to bring you news of the Goblins. For the past twenty-four hours, they have walked a long, hard trail beset with difficulty and danger. Sproggit has a thorn in his toe, Stinkwart has a piece of grit in his eye and both Slopbucket and Hog have horrible blisters. Eyesore has come out quite badly in a fight with a baby rabbit and has a scratch on his arm. Lardo has lost his hat. Plugugly’s knees have swollen up like balloons.
Sadly, the long, hard trail has turned out to be in a circle, and right now they are back where they started, sleeping in an exhausted heap, worn out by blaming each other as much as anything.
That is the end of the Newsflash.
CHAPTER TEN
The Beach
‘Come to the pier with me, Sharky? Please?’ begged
Pongwiffy for the thousandth time. She was sitting fully clothed, drumming her feet restlessly on a small rock. Nearby, Hugo waded about in a miniature rock pool, thrashing about with a lollipop stick, hoping for piranhas.
‘No,’ said Sharkadder, who was sunbathing. She lay on a large purple towel, surrounded by dozens of little bottles containing home-brewed sun preparations. She wore a startling yellow and black striped woolly bathing suit and a large cucumber lay across her forehead (she had read somewhere that cucumber was cooling to the eyes). She looked like a greasy hornet with a touch of vegetable and a lot of stick insect in its ancestry.
‘But what about the Hall of Mirrors? You said you wanted to go there,’ protested Pongwiffy.
‘I’m saving that for later, when I’ve acquired a glorious tan. Anyway, I’m all comfy. I’d be even comfier if those two hadn’t pinched the only available sunbeds.’
She removed her cucumber and glared a short way along the beach to where two Mummies were busily rubbing embalming lotion into their bandages. Their names were Xotindis and Xstufitu. They had been Pharaohs once, in pre-bandaged times, and considered it their divine right to commandeer the sunbeds.
The beach was filling up. A family of Trolls in Hawaiian shirts had collected up a pile of rocks and were marking out their territory. Down by the water’s edge, a group of screeching Banshees were chasing each other with a rubber shark. Nearby, a gang of Zombies were shuffling around with a beach ball and over by the breakwater a gang of grinning Skeletons were posing for photos.
‘You’re going all pink,’ Pongwiffy warned her. ‘You’ll burn.’
‘Nonsense. My skin has nothing to fear from the sun’s rays. I’m using my own personal range of suncreams,’ Sharkadder explained. ‘You can borrow some if you like,’ she added generously.
‘No thanks,’ said Pongwiffy hastily. ‘My dirt protects me from the sun. Oh, DO come to the pier with me.’
‘I said no. Besides, Dudley won’t know where I am when he comes back from his inspection of the boat yard. He was a seafaring cat in his youth, bless him. I think he feels the call of the salt, or something. He was singing shanties in his sleep last night. I had a terrible night, what with him and that awful Goblin music. And I’m sharing a room with Sludgegooey. She snores and eats treacle sandwiches in bed.’
There was a short silence.
‘What was the breakfast like, by the way? At Ocean View?’ Pongwiffy asked casually. She didn’t really want to seem interested. She still hadn’t quite forgiven Sharkadder for deserting her in her hour of need.
‘Awful. Boiled eggs and weak tea. We all hoped Sourmuddle would say something, but she didn’t. Some of us think she’s taking this politeness business too far,’ said Sharkadder darkly.
‘You should have come out to my tent,’ said Pongwiffy smugly. ‘Hugo and I cooked ourselves a lovely little fishy each over an open fire. Delicious it was.’
‘I wish I had,’ confessed Sharkadder enviously. ‘But I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome after the tent business. It was a hard decision, believe me, but I keep telling you, there wasn’t enough room. Not for all four of us and my make-up.’
There was another short silence.
‘I expect you’d like a big ice cream, then,’ Pongwiffy said at last. ‘If you haven’t had any breakfast. I bet there’s ice cream on the pier.’
‘I don’t want ice cream. I’m sunbathing. Go on your own if you want.’
‘All right then, I will,’ said Pongwiffy crossly. ‘Come on, Hugo, hop in my bucket. We’re off to find the action!’
And off they set, taking care to kick a lot of pebbles in the laps of Xotindis and Xstufitu.
Far away in the distance, the twin Witches Agglebag and Bagaggle, armed with jam jars and fishing nets, were climbing over the slippery rocks and peering into rock pools, looking either for some new pets or, possibly, lunch.
‘Yoo-hoo, Pongwiffy!’ they cried. ‘Come and help us fish!’
‘No thanks,’ shouted Pongwiffy. ‘We’re off to the pier!’
Down by the water’s edge, Sludgegooey and Bendyshanks had removed their boots and stockings and were having a jolly water fight with buckets.
‘Hey there, Pongwiffy!’ cried Sludgegooey and Bendyshanks in unison. ‘Come and have a paddle with us.’
‘Not likely,’ called Pongwiffy with a shudder. ‘I’m not much of a water Witch really.’
And on she went.
A bit further along, a surly-looking Tree Demon had just finished setting up a rickety Punch and Judy show. Scrofula, Macabre and Ratsnappy had joined an expectant crowd and were seated in the front row.
‘Hey! Pongwiffy! Come and join us – the show’s just starting!’ shouted Scrofula excitedly.
‘Well – only for a minute,’ said Pongwiffy, who was a sucker for puppet shows.
