by Kaye Umansky
Butler the butler was sitting at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, polishing the silver. He jumped to his feet, adjusted his glasses, saw who it was and promptly sat down again.
‘I say, Butler,’ said Ronald into the silence.
‘Yes, sir?’ sighed Butler, polishing away. Ronald thought he detected an ironic tone in the way he said sir.
‘I was just wondering if there was any chance of some breakfast.’
‘Breakfast?’ Butler’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared into his hairline. The watching staff sniggered and twirled fingers at their heads.
‘Yes,’ said Ronald firmly. ‘Breakfast. I’d like some.’
‘Dear me, no. Oh no, no, no, no. Breakfast is finished. As you can see, the staff are preparing lunch.’ Right on cue, the staff began clattering away, busily preparing lunch, clearly far too occupied to attend to Ronald.
‘Oh, come on. Not even a sausage? I’ve been out walking, you see, and got delayed by rain –’
‘I regret that, sir, I truly do. But there was a run on sausages. The proper Wizards decided to take breakfast in –’
‘What did you just say?’
‘Sorry, slip of the tongue. The senior Wizards took breakfast in the Lounge. The sausage platters were returned empty, as always. As were the trays of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, fried bread, black pudding, beans –’
‘All right,’ sighed Ronald.
‘Hash-browns-toast-muffins-crumpets-pastries-ham-cheese-pickled-onions –’
‘I said all right! I get the picture. They all stuffed themselves and left nothing for me! I get it!’
‘It’s good you get something, because you won’t be getting breakfast at this hour,’ said Butler. ‘And if you don’t mind my mentioning it, we don’t encourage bare feet in the kitchen. This is a food preparation area. Sir.’
Ronald turned on his naked heel and stamped out, slamming the door behind him.
He plodded back up the steps, padded along another corridor (carpeted this time) and halted before a fancifully carved door. This was the Lounge, where the Wizards always congregated after breakfast – or before breakfast when there was something good on spellovision.
Ronald hesitated. Should he go in? The fire certainly appealed. Someone might offer him a biscuit or something, although he doubted it. Wizards are not good at sharing. On the other hand, he needed to confront them about the password and the rain. Then again, they were sure to poke fun at his feet . . .
His indecision ended when the door suddenly opened to reveal Frank the Foreteller. Frank was thin and weaselly with a ratty beard and a tatty old jumper pulled over his robe. His face lit up at the sight of Ronald.
‘Aha! Young Ronald! I knew it would be you!’
He did too. Foreknowledge was Frank’s speciality. That made him very annoying, particularly in card games when he always knew what you were about to put down.
‘Yes,’ said Ronald stiffly. ‘I’ve just come back from a walk in Witchway Wood.’
‘Have you? Have you indeed? Hear that, gentlemen? The lad’s been walking down in the Wood. And there was I thinking he’d been skipping about on tippy-toes with the Happy Fairies in Rainbow Land!’ Frank the Foreteller pointed gleefully at Ronald’s unattractive feet.
‘My shoes got wet in the rain,’ snapped Ronald. ‘Which you caused.’
‘Meeee?’
‘All of you. I’m not stupid, you know. I’d like to get to the fire, if you don’t mind.’
‘But of course! Let’s get those tootsies warmed up, eh? Dave, turn the volume down. Move your feet, gentlemen, wet Wizard coming through!’
The Lounge also had red flock wallpaper and a dreadful clashing carpet, although you couldn’t see much of it owing to the armchairs taking up most of the space. Their occupants sat up interestedly as Ronald stepped in, like wolves scenting prey.
The room was hot. A blazing fire raged in the hearth. Above, on the carved mantelpiece, was a huge, complicated clock showing the time, temperature and weather conditions in various Magical dimensions. Right now, it didn’t show anything as no one had bothered to wind it up. The Wizards used it to stick junk mail behind.
As well as armchairs, there were a great many lamps, footstools and small tables heaped with newspapers, magazines, grapes, biscuits, sweets and chocolates. A large spellovision stood in one corner, tuned to a popular Gnome soap opera called Gnome and Away.
Getting to the fire was an obstacle course. Ronald squeezed around chairs, tripped over feet, stumbled on rugs, bumped into lamps and banged his knees on low-lying coffee tables. The Wizards watched his progress with amusement, chuckling at each little mishap. There came a chorus of ironic cheers when he finally made it.
‘So,’ said a voice from an empty armchair. ‘Out walking on a day like today, eh? Any particular reason?’ This was Alf the Invisible, who rarely bothered to take his reversing pills.
‘I like to keep fit,’ said Ronald. There was a lot of chortling at this. Wizards have a very relaxed attitude to fitness. Strolling to and from the Dining Hall is usually the extent of their exercise. And a little light stretching for another biscuit.
‘Did you happen to look in the postbox on your way back, by any chance?’ That was Fred the Flameraiser, speaking through a fog of nasty pipe smoke.
‘No. Why?’
‘Just wondering if your replacement Certificate has arrived.’ The chortles turned into guffaws.
‘No,’ said Ronald shortly. ‘Not yet. Any day now.’
‘I knew he’d say that,’ crowed Frank the Foreteller, slapping his thigh.
‘No trouble with the password, I hope?’ chipped in Dave the Druid – a short, plump Wizard who always wore a grubby hooded robe belted with frayed rope. He winked mischievously at his fellow Wizards, who rocked with glee.
‘You know there was,’ said Ronald bitterly. ‘You waited until I went out, then changed it. Making me look silly in front of Brenda.’
‘You look silly in front of everybody, lad,’ said Frank.
‘Well, I don’t think it’s funny,’ snapped Ronald. ‘What’s the new one, anyway?’
‘I’m a Sorcerer, Let Me Into Here. Move back from the fire, boy, you’re steaming the place out.’
‘What’sh happening?’ enquired a reedy little voice. It came from the throat of Harold the Hoodwinker, the oldest Wizard, who had been lying back in his armchair with his mouth open, drooling.
‘It’s young Ronald,’ Dave the Druid told him. ‘Back from a paddle in the Wood.’
‘Boy’sh a fool,’ said Harold.
‘Anyone care for a chocolate?’ enquired Alf the Invisible. There came an eager chorus of assent. A box of chocolates rose from the table next to the empty armchair and floated around, politely offering itself to each Wizard in turn. When the box reached Ronald, all that was left was the cabbage cream that nobody ever wanted.
‘Never mind, lad,’ said a hawk-nosed Wizard with a long white beard and half glasses. His name was Gerald the Just, and he liked to think of himself as fair-minded. ‘We’re only teasing. Just our little bit of fun.’
‘Yes,’ said Ronald sulkily. ‘At my expense.’
‘True,’ said Gerald. ‘I’ll give you that.’
It was true too. There were seven Wizards in the Club, but only six chairs in the Lounge – i.e., none for Ronald. He had been given one for Christmas once, but it had been ‘accidentally’ thrown away when the decorations came down. There was no peg for him in the Cloakroom either, and no locker for his sandwiches. He had the smallest, coldest bedroom in the highest tower, at the top of a million steps. It was all terribly unfair.
‘How’s your Witch aunty, young Ronald?’ asked Frank, chomping on a delicious strawberry cream. ‘Still sending you the home-made pimple creams, is she?’
‘Don’t seem to do the trick,’ remarked Fred the Flameraiser, puffing away.
‘He should ask her for a beard-growing potion,’ chipped in Dave the Druid.
‘True,’ rumbled
the Wizards, happily stroking their own glorious beards. ‘He should.’
It was all too much. First the rain, then the password, then the mocking of the feet, then the Certificate, then the cabbage chocolate, then the Witch-for-an-aunty stuff and now they were playing the no-beard card. Ronald had had more than enough.
‘Excuse me,’ he snarled. ‘I think I’ll just go to my room. I have important things to do.’
‘I knew he’d say that!’ crowed Frank the Foreteller.
Ronald flounced out, to an uproar of guffaws and delighted knee-slapping.
Chapter Three
Ronald’s Room
Panting heavily on account of the million steps, Ronald pushed open the door of his turret room, walked in, kicked the door closed, chucked his soggy Hat into a corner and threw himself on his disgusting tip of a bed. He hiked the hard pillow up behind his head and stared miserably around.
Nothing had changed in his absence. The room was still freezing cold and smelled funny. The old poster of Lulu Lamarre (the famous film star) in a pink evening dress still drooped from the one pin holding it to the wall. Her red lipsticked mouth smiled at him crookedly from its upside down position. Ronald didn’t care. He was bored with her now.
Yep. Everything was the same. The window was still stuck. The floorboards were still bare. The shelf on the wall was still wonky. Everything on it slid to one end. The washbasin was still cracked and the water wouldn’t drain. Every time he cleaned his teeth, it took three days to empty. The wardrobe door still swung on a single hinge. The desk still wobbled. There was still no chair. If he tried lighting a fire, the chimney would still smoke.
Propped on the wobbly desk was a postcard. He knew what it said.
I trust you received the ten pound note I sent for your birthday? On no account fritter it away. It is to be used to purchase the replacement Certificate that we are all so eager to see. Kindly write by return. Aunt Sharkadder.
There were no kisses.
Ronald sighed. Something else he hadn’t done. He hadn’t written a thank you letter. But he couldn’t face it now. Not yet. He was too cold, too damp, too fed up. The walk had been a washout, his Cloak and shoes were in enemy hands, he’d missed breakfast and everyone and everything had been disrespectful. The only good thing in life was the tenner in his piggy bank. Although he owed most of that to the Catalogue.
He reached under his pillow for the biscuits he kept there, then remembered he’d eaten them.
He wished that something good would happen to cheer him up. He could look at his old car magazines, he supposed. There were stacks of them in dusty piles under his bed. Or he could draw a moustache on Lulu. Or squeeze a pimple. Or get out the ten pound note and look at it again. His piggy bank lived at one end of the sloping shelf, together with his hairbrush, his hair gel, a pile of threatening letters from the Catalogue, his interesting stones collection and the copy of My First Little Book of Wizardry. Everything was jumbled up in a messy heap. If he tried to get at the piggy bank, the whole lot would come down.
Of course, what he should do really was get the book down and spend an hour studying. Not that it would make any difference. Magic didn’t come naturally to Ronald.
The first spell in the book was Easy Finger Sparkles. Confidence was the thing. You had to believe it would work. You had to wiggle your fingers, clear your mind of doubt and say Inky Pinky Parkle, make my fingers sparkle! And a stream of green sparks was supposed to blaze forth, bringing gasps of astonishment and awe. The wiggling was easy, as was the rubbish rhyme. The confidence wasn’t always there, though. The few sparks he managed to produce tended to sputter feebly, then die off like a cheap sparkler. He couldn’t do it at all if people were watching.
He had attempted My First Fireball with disappointing results. Fireballs should be flaming balls of white heat with a comet tail. The rhyme went: Bing, Bang, Bong! Fireballs are strong! Ronald’s weren’t, though. They were pink and puny. They just drifted around uselessly for a bit, then popped, for some reason smelling weirdly of cheese.
He had skipped My Little Puff of Smoke because he was scared of setting his sleeves on fire. He had glanced at Rabbit in a Hat! and See My Sleeve Doves! and decided to leave them for another time. His skills were very limited.
There came a knock at the door. This was unusual. The thing about having the turret room was that he rarely received visitors. The Wizards couldn’t be bothered with all those stairs, especially as there was only Ronald at the top of them. Even the staff conveniently forgot about him. His room never got dusted or swept. His sheets only got changed when somebody remembered, which was about twice a year.
‘Yes?’ he called. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me,’ came the brisk reply. ‘Open up.’
Ronald scrambled up from the bed. It was that Crabbit girl. He recognised her voice. Come to apologise for her earlier behaviour, probably. Pushing ahead like that. It just wasn’t on.
He grabbed his Hat from the corner, crammed it on his head and snatched open the door.
‘Yes?’ said Ronald haughtily. ‘You have something to say to me?’
‘Yours, I believe,’ said Hattie Crabbit. She was dressed in workmanlike overalls and had replaced her basket with a toolbox. From behind her back she produced the dreaded umbrella. It had come back to haunt him.
‘Well – yes. I didn’t actually choose it, of course, it was a pres—’
‘That’s not the point. The point is, you dropped it in the corridor.’
‘So? It’s broken.’
‘Put it in the bin, then.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Ronald was shocked. Wizards didn’t pick up after themselves. That was what servants were for.
‘I suppose you think that’s what servants are for,’ said Hattie Crabbit. ‘Well, I’ve got better things to do.’
‘Really?’ sneered Ronald. ‘Is that so? Like what?’
‘Like oiling the front door. Unclogging the fountain. Lagging the boiler. Re-grouting the tiles in the downstairs lav. All the stuff Uncle Rube’s let slide since his knee flared up.’
Ronald thought about Old Ruben Crabbit, the Clubhouse caretaker. The man was no more than a walking – no, a crawling list of medical ailments. The Lounge clock had behind it an entire sheaf of so-called doctor’s sick notes, clearly forged. Over the past year alone, he had suffered from Spivvits, Tetters, Clover Foot, Percy’s Fever, a Sprained Eye, Buzzing in the Ears, a Bad Back, Ingrowing Hairs and Recurring Knee Trouble. He spent all his time lying on the sofa watching Goblin football on spello. The only reason he hadn’t been fired was that Mrs Swipe was said to be sweet on him. Nobody dared upset Mrs Swipe.
‘Aha,’ said Ronald. ‘The old knee again. I see.’
‘Yep. He’s got to rest it. Doctor’s orders.’
‘Would that be the doctor who scribbles his sick notes on the back of old envelopes? Whose handwriting so mysteriously resembles your uncle’s?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Hattie shortly. He had clearly hit a nerve. He wondered whether to continue in the same vein, but decided not to. After all, nobody chose their relatives. He should know. He had a Witch for an aunty.
‘So you’re here to do Old Crabbit’s job for him, are you?’ he asked.
‘Just helping out till he’s back on his feet.’
‘He’s never on his feet, except to deliver sick notes.’
‘Whatever. He’s giving me a shilling a week.’
‘A shilling?’ Ronald was startled. ‘Is that all?’ He knew for a fact that Old Crabbit earned ten times that amount.
‘Every little helps,’ said Hattie. ‘I’m saving up. Anyway, while I’m here, is there anything that needs fixing in your room?’
‘Eh?’ Ronald could hardly believe his ears. Was somebody actually offering to fix stuff in his room? This was a first.
‘I’ve just carried this toolbox up a million stairs,’ said Hattie. ‘I might as well, while I’m here.’
‘Well,’ said Ronald, ‘now you
come to mention it, there are one or two things. The window’s stuck. And the wardrobe door’s missing a hinge and the sink won’t empty and the desk’s a bit wonky and for some reason the chimney –’
‘All right,’ said Hattie. ‘Mind out, I’m coming in. Here, take this.’ She thrust the umbrella at him, strode in and stood staring around, frowning and sniffing.
Ronald saw her eyes run over his hideous bed and felt embarrassed. Then he remembered that he was a Wizard and answered to nobody. He considered tossing the umbrella aside in a gesture of defiance, then decided not to. Not if she was going to fix stuff.
Hattie sighed, put the toolbox down, unclipped the lid and fished around, coming up with a chisel and a large hammer.
‘Right. Window first, get some air in.’ She marched to the window, angled the chisel and gave a brisk tap. Instantly, the window flew open in a shower of raindrops. ‘That’s better. OK, wardrobe next. I’ve got a hinge somewhere.’
Ronald walked to the window and stuck his head out. The rain had stopped. Well, it would, now he was back indoors.
‘So how d’you get to be a Wizard, then?’ asked Hattie. She was on her knees before the toolbox, sorting through a jar of screws. ‘Do you need a Certificate or something?’
‘Um – yes,’ said Ronald.
‘Can I see it?’
‘No. I can’t lay my hands on it right now.’
‘You should have it framed. I would. I see you’ve got a spell book on the shelf.’ She pointed at My First Little Book of Wizardry. ‘Can you do all of them?’
‘Of course,’ lied Ronald. ‘That’s easy stuff.’
‘Which one are you best at?’
‘Finger Sparkles.’
‘What do they do?’
‘They’re a sort of warning. They show you’ve got Magic at your fingertips. People think twice before approaching.’
‘I’m not surprised. I’d run a mile from someone with fizzing fingers.’
‘Yes,’ said Ronald. ‘They are rather effective.’ Well, his weren’t, but she didn’t have to know.
