by Kaye Umansky
Founder of the Club,
We sing to you today!
Great enchanter,
Beard as long as Santa,
Three cheers for Mervyn,
Hooray, hooray, hooray! ’
Everyone threw their hats in the air apart from Ronald, who didn’t have one.
‘Right, that’s it,’ said Dave. ‘Back to lunch, everybody. Come on, young Ronald, fish and chips await! Butler, fetch the lad a chair! Least we can do, eh?’
Everyone surged towards the door, and in a very short space of time, the courtyard was almost empty. A Dragon was all very interesting, but lunch called.
Only Miss Stickler remained, standing on the top step.
‘Well done, young man,’ she called. ‘Glad to see you learnt something. Don’t forget to drop in the Certificate. I’m still waiting, you know.’ And with that, she was gone.
Ronald was left alone. Now that he was no longer the centre of attention, Denzil had wandered off under the archway and was noisily tearing ivy off the wall, eyed nervously by the gargoyle overhead.
‘Hattie?’ called Ronald. He stared around. Where was she? He had forgotten all about her, what with all the fuss.
He suddenly spotted her coming around the side of the Clubhouse. She had changed out of her overalls and was wearing her brown cloak and carrying her basket. What was this?
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ronald, hurrying to meet her.
‘Home,’ said Hattie.
‘What? Why?’
‘Uncle Rube’s up and about again. He’s repainting the Mervyns. My work is done.’
‘But you can’t – I mean, what about – you can’t leave me with Denzil! He hates me!’
‘Oh, is that why he swooped down to save you when you fell out of the nest? He did that off his own bat, you know.’
‘Left it to the last minute, mind,’ said Ronald.
‘Well, yes. But it shows he cares.’
‘Not that much. It’s you he really loves. You know that.’
‘OK, then, I’ll take him home with me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. He can live in the stable with the donkey and the zebra. I think they’ll just about all fit in. You can come and visit him. Uncle Rube’s got my address.’
‘But – when are you coming back?’
‘That depends. When Uncle falls sick again, I suppose.’
‘This is goodbye, then?’ asked Ronald. He couldn’t believe she was leaving, just like that. After all they had been through together.
‘Yep,’ said Hattie. ‘I’m missing the animals. But I’ll miss you too, Ron. Oh – just one thing before I go.’
‘What?’
‘Show us your Finger Sparkles.’
Ronald held up his sore, splinter-filled hands and cleared his brain of all doubt. Confidence. That was the thing.
‘Inky Pinky Parkle, make my fingers sparkle!’
And they did! A great explosion of green sparkles came streaming from the very tips of his fingers! They reached as far as the ornamental fountain. They were the best he’d ever managed. He’d have to try them out on the gargoyle in the archway.
He let them run for a bit, then dropped his hands, which tingled, but in a good way.
‘That was pretty impressive,’ said Hattie.
‘Thanks,’ said Ronald happily. ‘I’ll do a Fireball if you like.’
‘Save it for the next time. I’m off. Try to keep your room tidy. When you get your new gear, put your old stuff in the bin. Bye, Ron.’
‘Bye, Hattie. Um – thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Don’t forget to write to your aunty.’
‘I will,’ said Ronald. ‘I will.’
He stood and watched her walk away.
‘Bye, Denzil!’ he called, as she reached the archway. ‘Be a good boy!’
Denzil turned around and gave him a long, hard, yellow stare. Was that a wink? Was it? Or did he just have something in his eye? Hard to say. Then he turned and waddled after Hattie. A faint, rude odour of noxious gas came back on the breeze – and was gone.
Ronald stood in his turret room. It was all shipshape again. Hattie must have been up sorting it while he was away in Sludgehaven. The bedspread was washed, and a new rug replaced the old one. The coal was in the fireplace, where it belonged. The logs were in a tidy pile. The only clue that Denzil had ever been there was his empty basket.
Ronald couldn’t bear to look at it.
Down in the lobby, Old Crabbit was standing on a stepladder, giving Mervyn his new coat of gold paint. Brenda was back at the reception desk, on the phone to Pauline.
‘Back at work, I see, Crabbit!’ called Ronald. He paused with the basket in his hand. ‘Knee better, is it?’
‘Yes,’ mumbled Crabbit. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Well, don’t overdo it. You’re looking a bit pale, I think.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I hope you’re not sickening for something.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Old Crabbit testily.
‘Well, if you feel it’s all getting too much, I suggest you go back to the doctor. Get another sick note. Oh! I’ve just noticed! Isn’t that the beginnings of a rash on your neck?’
‘Eh?’ Old Crabbit looked startled. His hand went to his neck.
‘I’m pretty sure it is, you know,’ said Ronald. ‘Looks quite nasty. Oh – when you’ve finished painting, get rid of this, would you?’ He set down the basket next to Mervyn. ‘Be careful how you pick it up. Don’t want you to put your back out again. And I’d be grateful for Hattie’s address. I forgot to give her some money. And I want to send her some flowers. She’s looking after my Dragon for me.’
And with that, he marched off down the corridor, following the delicious smell of frying fish, tossing his bulging purse from hand to hand and whistling as he went.
Chapter One
Filth
‘And where d’you think you’re going?’ enquired Witch Sludgegooey. Her head was deep in the oven at the time, but she still heard the door squeak.
‘Rehearsal,’ mumbled the small Fiend hovering on the doorstep. This was Filth, Sludgegooey’s Familiar. He was clearly all set to go. Hair tuft gelled, nails painted black, desperate to be off and away.
‘It’s not Wednesday, is it?’ Sludgegooey emerged from the oven with the tip of her hat on fire. She snatched it off and beat out the flames with a wet dishcloth.
‘Extra one. Reviewing the pad.’
‘That’s musical language, is it? “Reviewing the pad”?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Making a list of what we play. Add some new tunes. Got to keep it fresh, man.’
‘Don’t call me man, Filth. Call me Mistress.’
‘OK, Mistress.’
‘Don’t say OK. Say yes.’
‘OK then, yeah. Yes.’
‘How many times must I tell you? Familiars are supposed to speak respectfully to their Witches. Less of the slang. What time will you be back?’
‘Dunno. I mean, not sure.’
‘Because I could do with a bit of help clearing up.’
Sludgegooey flapped her dishcloth at the mountains of washing-up, deserts of spilt flour and oceans of slimy liquids that urgently awaited attention. She had been baking all day like a mad thing – not because she enjoyed it but because it was the Coven Cake Sale on Saturday. Of course, Filth should have helped, but he had been shut in his room with the radio on, seemingly deaf to her loud knockings and demands for assistance.
‘Can’t the Broom do it?’ suggested Filth.
Sludgegooey’s Broom tensed up in its corner, clearly not keen.
‘It’s too much for the Broom. It can’t get inside the oven – it’s the wrong shape.’
The Broom gave a sharp nod of agreement. It swept. It flew. It didn’t do ovens.
‘I’ll do it,’ promised Filth. ‘Soon as I get back.’
‘Ah, but will you?’
‘For re
al. Yeah. I mean yes, Mistress.’
‘Well – all right. But I want you back by midnight.’
‘Cool.’
‘It might be. I’d take a scarf. You can borrow my spotty one with the egg stain.’
‘No, that’s all right,’ said Filth hastily. ‘Look, I gotta split. Laters, yeah?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
But Filth was already slouching off down the path, snapping his fingers, leaving Sludgegooey pondering once again on the wisdom of choosing a Fiend as a Familiar.
Of course, the real blame lay with the Find A Familiar catalogue, which had overstocked on Fiends and was promoting them heavily at the time. They had been described in glowing terms, as follows:
FIENDS
Whizzy, busy little helpers who run around chattering and cooking and putting shelves up whilst you, the Witch, relax on the sofa eating biscuits. Good value on the domestic front. Excellent DIY skills. Trained to assist in all areas of Magic including Incantations, Cauldron Dancing and Herb Recognition. Next-day delivery. OFFER OF THE MONTH! GET YOURS NOW!
Sludgegooey wasn’t domestic and loved slumping around on sofas scoffing biscuits, so that appealed. But it was the offer of the month bit that did it because, like all Witches, she loved a bargain. She had sent off for one and waited excitedly for it to arrive and start cooking. She waited . . .
And waited . . .
And waited some more. Finally she complained to the catalogue company, who claimed to have dispatched one ages ago. The man on the phone was quite sniffy and wouldn’t apologise, even when Sludgegooey threatened them with her latest curse – a particularly inventive one involving itchy ears, dreams featuring marzipan sharks and the weird smell of burning coming from your shoes.
The sniffy man remained firm. They’d sent one off. Not their fault it hadn’t arrived. A bill was in the post.
Sludgegooey said she had no intention of coughing up for a Fiend she didn’t have. The sniffy man referred her to the small print, which said she had to. Sludgegooey went into a sulk.
Then – finally – Filth showed up. He had no luggage other than a drum kit, stowed in a number of round boxes that he towed on a handcart. He didn’t say where he’d been. When Sludgegooey demanded an explanation, he just shrugged and muttered something about having to see a dude about a thing, then asked to see his bedroom, which he immediately set about painting black and covering with music posters.
That had been a long time ago. And he hadn’t changed.
In vain Sludgegooey waited for Filth to whizz, but he didn’t. He stood around and leaned against things. He didn’t scuttle, he sauntered. He didn’t chat, he mumbled. He wasn’t at all domestic and his DIY skills were non-existent. You couldn’t trust him with the Magical stuff either. He was usually found collapsed in a chair, tapping out rhythms with his eyes closed while cakes caught fire, shelves collapsed and the Brew he was supposed to be watching boiled away to nothing.
He forgot the words to incantations. When he danced round the cauldron, he always added little improvisations of his own, which mucked up the recipe. He got all the herbs wrong because his mind was elsewhere. No, he wasn’t a great Familiar. But . . .
Despite everything, Sludgegooey was fond of him. And secretly rather proud. After all, no other Witch could boast of having a Familiar in an actual band.
‘Remember me to the Boys!’ she shouted as he disappeared into the trees. She felt a bit rotten about giving him a hard time. She knew he lived for rehearsals. He couldn’t wait to be reunited with his drum kit, which he wasn’t allowed to keep in the cottage. He would have liked to rehearse every night, but Sludgegooey drew the line at that. As she told him, being a Familiar is not a part-time job. She got tired of making excuses for him in front of the other Witches, who felt she should get a better grip. But . . .
She was fond of him. And she didn’t want to stifle his creativity. For when Filth played the drums, he became – well, Fiendish. He sparkled. He shone. He whacked, he tapped, he boomed, he smashed, he juggled with his drumsticks. He exploded with rhythm and energy. He was on fire. As Sludgegooey said to a friend of hers, if only he put that amount of effort into his other duties, she’d be laughing.
He didn’t, though. The friend had been quick to point that out. The friend had gone on to say other negative things about the wisdom of choosing a Fiend for a Familiar. She was that sort of friend. But then, her Familiar was a Hamster, so what did she know?
Also by Kaye Umansky
Pongwiffy Back on Track
Pongwiffy A Witch of Dirty Habits
Pongwiffy and the Goblins’ Revenge
Pongwiffy and the Spell of the Year
Pongwiffy and the Holiday of Doom
Pongwiffy and the Pantomime
Pongwiffy and the Spellovision Song Contest
* * *
More Tales from Witchway Wood
Crash ’n’ Bang
* * *
Clover Twig and the Incredible Flying Cottage
Clover Twig and the Perilous Path
First published in Great Britain in September 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © Kaye Umansky 2012
Illustrations copyright © Nick Price 2012
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781408829608
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