by Kaye Umansky
‘Not jolly likely,’ crowed the Wizards. ‘Get your own sandwiches.’
‘I thought we had a truce,’ Sourmuddle reminded them. ‘One for all and all for one. United we stand, united we fall, remember?’
‘That was Goblins. This is food,’ explained Dave the Druid through a mouthful of chocolate cake. ‘With food, it’s Every Wizard for Himself. Sorry.’
‘Well I’m jiggered!’ grumbled Sourmuddle, disgusted. ‘There’s Wizards for you.’
Down in Sludgehaven, crowds of excitedly chattering theatregoers streamed back along the pier, away from the Pavilion, where they had just been enjoying what had been, by common consensus, the best show they had seen in a very long time!
For Scott, it had been a charmed night. The sort of night of which every actor dreams. One of those wonderful, enchanted evenings when everything for once had gone right.
His make-up had gone on like a dream, and when he changed into his stage gear of top hat and tails, the tea lady slipped him a chocolate biscuit at no extra charge and told him he looked quite the toff.
The coffee machine in the proper dressing room worked. The stage hands addressed him politely, patting him on the back and saying ‘Good luck, Mr Sinister, we know you can do it’ and ‘We’re all behind you, Mr Sinister’, and encouraging things like that. When he stood waiting in the wings, listening to the warm murmuring of the audience out front, he felt ready for anything. His luck had turned. He could feel it in his bones. He couldn’t wait to get out there and do his stuff!
The lights had dimmed on cue. The overture had started on time. The curtains hadn’t stuck. When he had come running gaily on stage, he hadn’t tripped over. His joke about the haddock was greeted with uproarious laughter. He had remembered the words of the songs and managed to stay almost in tune. When he sat on a stool in the spotlight and sang a particularly drippy love song, several female Trolls and an entire clutch of Banshees wept so much they were politely asked to leave.
His tap-dancing routine had gone down a treat – never had his feet skipped so lightly or his legs kicked so high. He had even managed to do the splits without rupturing either himself or his trousers, which takes real talent, as anyone in show business will tell you.
Throughout his entire performance, the audience had been on the edge of their seats, hanging on his every word, laughing, clapping, joining in with the songs, roaring for more. At the end, they had given him a standing ovation and made him come back on to take bow after bow after bow.
Backstage, after the show, his dressing room had bulged with flowers, chocolates and messages of congratulation. The Stage Manager had pumped his hand up and down and trebled his salary on the spot. Well-wishers filed in and out, telling him he was the tops and how they had always secretly preferred him to Lulu Lamarre and asking him when his next film was coming out.
And now, with the sound of clapping still ringing in his ears, he stood on the top step of the theatre with the night breeze cooling the sweat on his brow, shaking hands, signing autographs for fans and posing for pictures, murmuring ‘Thank you, luvvies’ and ‘You’re too kind, darlings’, just like he always used to before his slide into oblivion. Mmm. The sweet smell of success. How he had missed it.
He didn’t notice the scruffy coach that squealed to a sudden halt at the end of the pier. He didn’t notice the wild-eyed creature with tangled locks and a torn pink gown and one gold shoe who threw herself down the steps and came stumbling towards him along the pier. He didn’t notice until she hurled herself into his arms with a shrill squawk.
‘Scott! Oh, Scott, it’s me! Am I too late? Have I missed the show?’
He staggered backwards and almost missed his footing – but didn’t. Tonight was his night and nothing could go wrong.
‘Lulu!’ he cried, recovering his balance. ‘Whatever can have happened to you? You look simply dreadful.’
‘It was those old Witches again,’ sobbed Lulu. ‘They tricked me, Scott! They pretended to be rich producers and old boatmen and then the dead fish came alive but it wasn’t really, it was them and there was a horrible cat and a sick hamster and they put me in a boat and made me sit next to a wet Wizard in shorts and then the boat capsized and I had to swim to shore and then some horrid Goblins came along and tied us all up and made me sing and then –’
‘Darling,’ said Scott gently. ‘My poor, hysterical darling, get a hold of yourself. This sounds like the far-fetched plot of some very silly book. You’ve been working too hard, precious. None of this happened, sweetheart. It’s all been a terrible dream. You need a nice rest away from the public eye for a while.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts, angel. It’s tough at the top. It takes grit as well as talent. It’s obvious you can’t take the pace. Besides,’ he added, trying not to sound too pleased, ‘besides, you’ve been fired.’
Lulu burst into loud sobs.
‘There there,’ Scott soothed her, patting her back. ‘Never fear. Scotty will take care of you. And in a couple of years, when you’re back on your feet again, you never know – maybe I’ll offer you a bit part in my next movie.’
‘Oh, Scott! Scott! Boohoo! I’ve missed you, Scott.’
‘And I’ve missed you too, Lulu, darling.’
Back in the coach, Pongwiffy, Hugo, Sharkadder and Dudley surveyed the tender scene with disgusted eyes.
‘Well, there’s gratitude!’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Look at ’em! All lovey-dovey. It’s enough to make you sick. That’s the last time I save his career.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
No Feast For The Wicked
‘And what time of night do you call this?’ demanded Mrs Molotoff. She was standing in the doorway in dressing gown and slippers and with her hair in paper curlers, having been roused from bed by a thunderous knocking at the door, accompanied by rowdy singing.
‘Supper time,’ Sourmuddle told her briskly.
‘Supper? At this time of night? How dare you!’ squawked Mrs Molotoff, bristling with fury. ‘I told you, this is a respectable guest house. You have to obey the rules.’
‘Well, that’s just where you’re wrong,’ said Sourmuddle stoutly, to everyone’s surprise. ‘I’m Grandwitch and I do what I like.’
The Witches murmured excitedly among themselves as their noble leader marched up the steps, took a firm handful of dressing gown, and placed her nose close to Mrs Molotoff’s.
Could this be a showdown?
‘Listen here, you old skinflint, and listen good,’ hissed Sourmuddle. ‘I’ve pretty much had enough of you. I’ve got a party of ravenous Witches here. We’ve just returned from a highly successful rescue mission, and we’re in a party mood, see? And what we’d like right now is some proper food. I’m not talking eggs, mind. I’m talking cold turkey and raspberry jelly and sherry trifle and chocolate biscuits and little-sausages-on-sticks. And some of that nice fruit cake you keep in the tin on the top shelf. In fact, I’m talking a major feast, understand? So why don’t you just toddle on into the kitchen and make a start, eh? Else I just might lose my temper and do something nasty. I’m going to count to three. One . . .’
‘This is intolerable!’ spluttered Mrs Molotoff. ‘The House Rules clearly say No Feasts.’
‘Bother the House Rules,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Two.’ Little sparks were beginning to fizz at her fingertips. Mrs Molotoff went pale.
‘You’re not allowed to do that! There’s a No Magic law in Sludgehaven . . .’
‘Bother the law. Three.’
She muttered briefly under her breath, twiddled her fingers and, with a blinding flash, Mrs Molotoff disappeared! Her dressing gown and slippers were still there, and a neat little pile of screwed-up papers – but she had gone.
In her place squatted a small, surprised-looking chicken. It blinked once or twice at the shocked company and gave a couple of angry clucks. Then, suddenly, its spindly legs crossed, a desperate expression came over its face and it headed for the nearest bush at a run.
‘Ooooh,’ gasped the Witches. ‘Now you’ve done it, Sourmuddle! You used Magic! You turned Mrs Molotoff into a chicken!’
‘That’s right,’ said Sourmuddle cheerfully. ‘I rather think she’s gone to lay an egg.’
‘Hooray!’ yelled the Witches. ‘Good old Sourmuddle!’
‘Actually,’ added Sourmuddle, with a little chuckle, ‘actually, girls, I’ve got a confession to make.’
She rummaged deep in her handbag, and brought out something that everyone instantly recognised.
‘It’s the larder key,’ confessed Sourmuddle. ‘Or, rather, a copy. I pinched the real one when old Molotoff wasn’t looking and had a duplicate made. Snoop and I have been sneaking down at night and helping ourselves. We’ve enjoyed quite a few midnight feasts, haven’t we, Snoop?’
‘Well I never!’ gasped the Witches, torn between disgust and admiration. ‘You old dark horse, you!’
‘You mean we’ve been going hungry all this time and you and Snoop have been busily stuffing yourselves behind our backs?’ cried Ratsnappy. ‘Well, if that doesn’t take the cake!’
‘Tee hee hee,’ tittered Sourmuddle, obviously delighted with herself. ‘I took the cake all right. Sneaky, aren’t I? Sneaky and crafty and underhand. Which is why I’m Grandwitch and you lot are still milling about in the ranks. Am I right?’
Ruefully, the Witches nodded. She was right.
‘Anyway, enough of all this chat,’ cried Sourmuddle. ‘Come on, girls, in we go. Someone wake Cyril up and stick him in the kitchen with an apron on. It’s party time!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Loose Ends
Like all good holidays, the last few days flashed by at the speed of light. Most of the time was taken up with the traditional holiday pursuits of sunbathing, eating, paddling, fishing, eating, sleeping, eating and clock golf. Of course, quite a few interesting things happened too.
There was a visit from the man from the Council, who had somehow got to hear that a certain Coven of Witches had been using Magic, which of course was strictly against the law.
Sourmuddle remarked that, while of course she saw his point, she would remind him that her girls had been mainly responsible for the total decimation of Gobboworld, for which the residents of Sludgehaven should be eternally grateful. She followed this up by asking him mildly whether he’d spent much time as a slug recently? The man from the Council saw her point too, and agreed to drop charges.
There was the highly successful Coven outing to see the rediscovered superstar Scott Sinister starring in the Summer Spektacular, which Pongwiffy and her fellow hostages sniffily refused to attend on principle. After all, as Hugo was heard to remark, ‘Zere is such a sink as pride.’
There was the time when Gaga went snorkelling in her pointy hat and got mistaken for a shark, causing the entire beach to be evacuated.
There was the memorable occasion when Sharkadder visited the Hall of Mirrors for the first time and fell in a dead faint at the sight of her greatly magnified peeling nose.
There was the wonderful moment when Greymatter finally saw the light and answered One Across. Words spoken by backward giant (3,2,2,3). Answer: Eef If Of Muf.
Then, of course, there was the time the Brooms, bored silly with hanging around in a shed, broke out and went skinny-dipping at midnight. And the night when Sharkadder’s hedgehog hair rollers got loose and ended up in Bonidle’s bed. Then there was the occasion when Macabre got into a row with two Mummies about sunbeds and . . .
Well, you get the picture. Suffice it to say that the Witches had a whale of a time. Pongwiffy did too, as her many talents include a wonderful ability to bounce back. In no time at all, she got over the business with Scott Sinister and Lulu and was able to put the horrible experience of being washed by Goblins behind her. Much to her delight, her customary dirt soon began to build up. In fact, it must be said that, by the end of the celebratory feast, she was a good way towards being her old self again.
The Wizards had their moments too. Such as the one when Alf the Invisible fell over the balcony and nobody noticed. And that terrible time when the hotel ran out of greasy sausages. And Black Wednesday, when they realised they had posted their postcards without putting any stamps on and would have to do them all over again.
And what of Ronald? Well, depending on what you think of him, you will be either pleased or disappointed to hear that (at Gerald the Just’s insistence) he finally got the chance to read out his paper. His four-hour-long address on the subject of pointy hats went down in Convention history as the only speech ever to empty the hall. After the first ten minutes, even the hardened Convention-goers, the ones with the briefcases and the serious beards, were begging to be allowed to go for a drink of water and were not coming back.
It won a prize, of course, and got published in an obscure Wizardly journal. And that cheered Ronald up enormously. From that moment on, he decided never to go paddling again, but to concentrate on his studies instead. Sadly, it didn’t do him any good. Among his fellow Wizards, he was never taken seriously and was always referred to disparagingly as ‘Ronald the Paddler’ instead of Ronald the Magnificent, which is what he would have liked to be called. And to this day he hasn’t got a chair. Or a locker.
But for four long hours, it did his ego a bit of good.
Mrs Molotoff remained a chicken for the duration of the holiday. When the spell wore off and she finally returned to normal, conditions improved at Ocean View. She wasn’t so inclined to henpeck Cyril. She’d had enough henpecking to last her a lifetime.
Also, she found she had gone right off eggs. She wouldn’t have an egg in the house. At the very mention of the word, she would give a little wince and have to go and lie down in a darkened room.
But that was later, after the Witches had left.
On the night of departure, they assembled sadly in the front garden with their Familiars, their luggage and their Brooms. They had decided to fly back to Witchway Wood – mainly because George had put his foot down and refused to drive them, but also because they fancied the idea. The weather conditions were perfect, with a big yellow moon hanging in the sky. The Brooms champed at their bits, eager to be off.
From inside Ocean View, there came the sound of a vacuum cleaner as Cyril began the big clear-up.
There was a lot of fussing about with string and rope and elastic bands as people attempted to strap metre-wide trunks on to thin pieces of stick. And that was without all the extra bits and pieces they had collected! The shells, the interesting pebbles, the dried seaweed, Minnie and Manfred, the straw hats, Sourmuddle’s goldfish, the sticks of rock, Gaga’s oil painting, Mr Punch’s nose, the towel from the bathroom, the . . . Well. You know the sort of thing.
‘Are we all ready then?’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Did anyone remember to give a tip to Cyril? Those were pretty good breakfasts he cooked.’
‘Aye,’ said Macabre. ‘Ah gave him a tip. Ah told him to put more salt in the porridge.’
‘That’s all right then. Right, everyone, this is it. End of holiday. Back to Witchway Wood and the humdrum round of cackling over cauldrons and trudging around wet fields looking for spotty toadstools in the fog.’
‘And trying to buy non-existent ingredients in Malpractiss Magic Ltd,’ said Sludgegooey.
‘And the Friday night Coven Meetings,’ Macabre reminded them. ‘Don’t forget them.’
‘And the brews,’ chipped in Bendyshanks.
‘And writing seriously good poetry,’ added Greymatter.
‘And playing our violins,’ chorused Agglebag and Bagaggle.
‘And washing my hair,’ supplied Scrofula.
‘And sleeping in my own little bed,’ yawned Bonidle.
‘And watching Gaga loop the loop over a full moon,’ said Ratsnappy.
‘And getting made up nicely,’ said Sharkadder. ‘With a decent mirror.’
‘And sitting down in my own little hovel in front of a nice cosy fire with a hot cup of bogwater, squabbling with Hugo an
d listening to the rain,’ said Pongwiffy.
They all looked at each other.
‘Yeah!’ they shouted with one accord. ‘Let’s go home!’
And with wild whoops, they mounted their skittish Brooms and took off into the night sky.
From the bush in the garden came the sound of straining, followed by a plop.
Mrs Molotoff had laid another egg.
FINAL GOBLIN NEWSFLASH
A report has just come in that, somewhere high in the Misty Mountains, a Gaggle of heavily bandaged Goblins are trudging home. Many miles of hardship and suffering and torment lie before them – the usual sort of stuff, but in reverse. Storm clouds are gathering, abysses are looming, packs of wolves are closing in, Abominable Snowmen lie in wait. When they get back home they won’t be able to relax, for a certain Witch will come looking for them, you can bet on it.
But all this lies before them. Right now they are in good spirits. The night is balmy. The moon is full. No one has fallen down a precipice – yet. For sustenance, they have with them a rare treat – a lovely bucketful of overripe tomatoes. And, as they keep telling each other, they did it! They have been to Gobboworld. In fact, for a few enchanted hours, they were the heroes of Gobboworld.
Oh yes. They have had their moment of glory. For the moment, anyway, they are content.
This omnibus edition published in Great Britain in 2018 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Pongwiffy: The Spell of The Year first published by Viking 1992
Pongwiffy: The Holiday of Doom first published by Viking 1995
Text copyright © Kaye Umansky 1992 and 1995
Revised text copyrights © Kaye Umansky 2009
Illustrations copyright © Katy Riddell 2018
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Kaye Umansky and Katy Riddell to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
