Witch Baby and Me On Stage

by Debi Gliori

  ‘Lily?’ Mrs McDonald is handing out sheets of paper to everyone.

  ‘Erm … can I go to the bathroom?’

  ‘Hurry up then, dear.’ Mrs McDonald frowns. ‘We’re planning the costumes we’re going to make for the little ones. We need your help.’

  I’m halfway out of the door already, but I’m not going to the bathroom. Instead, I double back, tiptoe past our classroom and creep up to the door of the nursery. Please, I beg silently, let me be imagining things. Maybe Daisy’s cackling quietly to herself because she thinks her Poo jokes are hysterical? Maybe I’ll look through the porthole in the nursery door, and there she’ll be, quietly sitting drawing or …

  Oh, heck. Oh HELP. Oh, Daisy. What have you done?

  When I burst into the classroom, Daisy is playing with the doll’s house; she turns round and beams at me. There’s nobody else in the classroom. No teacher. No tots. Just Daisy.

  ‘Lookit, Lil-Lil,’ she says. ‘Little dollies.’

  Aaaargh. I have to make sure that my little sister is Very Gentle Indeed with these little dollies.* The little dollies that are waving their tiny arms and legs and opening their even tinier mouths and yelling something – several somethings – that I can barely hear.

  ‘Help. Help. Save Us. EEEEEeeeek. Aaaaargh.’

  I may not be able to hear, but I can understand perfectly. I want to scream Help! too, but I’m terrified that if I give Daisy a fright, or annoy her, she might accidentally drop, squash, squeeze or break one of the little dollies. And then …

  Briefly, a newspaper headline flashes across my mind:

  KILLER TOT GOES ON NURSERY RAMPAGE!

  I close my eyes and give a small moan. Daisy would never deliberately hurt a living thing, but a squashed tot is still a squashed tot, and they send people to prison for that sort of thing, don’t they? The idea of Daisy being led away to prison for ever and ever is so awful that I nearly how? out loud, but I stop myself in time. I mustn’t do anything to alarm Daisy – at least not when she has her nursery teacher clutched in her fist.

  ‘Ah … Daze?’

  ‘Night-night, dollies. Coze eyes. Seepy time.’ And Daisy pokes mini-Miss McPhee into a matchbox-sized doll’s bed and closes the front of the doll’s house. PheeeeYew. I’m just about to breathe a sigh of relief when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Aaaaaarggggh. There are three tiny figures waving frantically at me from a table in the painting corner. As I run across, I see they’re stuck fast in the centre of a painting, their tiny feet trapped in a thick blob of purple paint which is slowly drying all around them. Aware that if I pull too hard, their legs might fall off,* very carefully and slowly I prise the three ailing tots from the clasp of the purple goo, and rinse their legs under the tap before placing them on a paper towel and popping them into the doll’s house for safety.

  Right. Enough of this. Quick, before someone gets hurt.

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘MMMmmmmHmmmmm. Not lissnin’, Lil-Lil.’

  How annoying is that? GRRRRRRR. But there’s no time to argue with her. I’ll have to bribe my witchy sister into behaving properly. Oh, sigh.

  ‘That’s a real shame, Daze …’ I begin. ‘Still, that means there’ll be all the more for me. If you’re not listening, then you won’t hear me unwrap a square of delicious, melt-in-the-mouth, dribble-down-your-chin—’

  ‘What doon, Lil-Lil?’ Suddenly Daisy is all ears. Not only is she now listening, she’s almost quivering with anticipation.

  ‘In my bag in the classroom next door are four squares of butterscotch-chip dark chocolate.’

  Daisy is staring at me, eyes round and mouth slightly open. Behind her, I can see tiny arms and legs emerging from an upstairs window of the doll’s house. Quick. Not a moment to lose – before the shrunken tots start flinging themselves out of the windows in a fatal attempt to escape.

  ‘Only exceedingly good and clever Witch Babies are allowed any of my chocolate,’ I continue, trying not to sound completely desperate. I glimpse the front door of the doll’s house shaking, as if several determined tots are trying to push it open. Hurry UP, Daisy.

  ‘Wantit choclit,’ Daisy mutters. ‘Wantit now.’

  She’s taken the bait so it’s time to reel her in.

  ‘But Daisy, only very good and clever Witch Babies can have any chocolate. That means Witch Babies who don’t do spells at school. That means Witch Babies who turn their friends and teacher back into proper people, not tiny dollies.’

  There’s a pause while Daisy thinks about this, then:

  ‘Two scares, Lil-Lil.’

  Two squares of my chocolate? I’ve only got four. However, I don’t have time to argue. Done. Phwoarrrrr, that Witch Baby? Don’t mess with her. Two squares to the Tot With Attitude.

  * The little dollies that are exactly like all the children and the teacher in Daisy’s class – except shrunk down to little people who stand no bigger than my thumb.

  * Eughhhhh. How awful would that be?

  Two:

  A toast to the nappy

  It has been a very wet spring so far, and with all the rain, the outdoor swimming pool at Arkon House is full to the brim. The Sisters of HiSS love their swimming pool and can be frequently found in it, or floating on top of it, or draped beside it on sun loungers at all times of year. Even now, in early spring, when the temperatures are Arctic and the wind is nippy, there they are, swimming from one end to the other, sipping as they go.

  Sipping? Being witches, the Sisters of HiSS can fill their pool with whatever takes their fancy: they’ve had hot chocolate, vanilla smoothie, pink lemonade and even rocket-strength espresso. However, today’s flavour is vintage champagne, and judging by the rosy colour of the Nose’s nose and the Chin’s flushed cheeks, two of the Sisters of Hiss have already sampled rather a lot of the pool’s contents. The Nose staggers around the edge and performs a colossal belly-flop into the deep end, submerging the Chin in a tidal wave of displaced champagne. Watching her hiccuppy, giggly sisters from a lily pad in the shallow end, the Toad sighs. It’ll end in tears, she suspects.

  Shivering, the Chin climbs out of the pool and wraps herself in a long towelling robe before curling up on a sun lounger and sighing happily as she closes her eyes.

  Today the Sisters of HiSS are celebrating. Few of us would be overcome with delight to discover a rancid nappy abandoned halfway down our stairs, but the Sisters of HiSS are not like us.* On finding Witch Baby’s discarded nappy (and its whiffy contents) the Sisters of Hiss were over the moon with happiness.** The nappy without a Witch Baby inside was proof that their little Daughter of Hiss was growing up. The nappy meant that their wait was nearly over. And what a long wait it had been. Twenty three months, to be precise. The Sisters of Hiss cast the Witch Baby spell when Daisy was a newborn baby and now she is fast approaching her second birthday. Lacking a Witch Baby of their own, the Sisters decided to make one from a human infant. However, they quickly realized that babies, even witchy ones, are hard work. So they left Daisy with her human family until the day when she was toilet-trained and old enough to be taught how to be a proper Daughter of Hiss. The Sisters of Hiss have been exceedingly patient, enduring one year and eleven months of watching from a distance; watching their Witch Baby being raised by her unsuspecting human parents and waiting till the happy day when she stopped dribbling at both ends and didn’t need nappies any more.

  ‘And then, dear Sisters,’ as the Nose never tired of saying, ‘then we’ll swoop in and collect our Witch Baby, and her real education will begin.’

  It has to be said that at this point the Nose looks as if she is about to swoop in and collect a juicy steak and chips rather than a tiny baby girl. In fact, every time the Nose spoke about their plans for Witch Baby’s future, she looked so Scary and hungry, the Chin shivered and turned pale.

  Of the three Sisters, the Nose is definitely the Hissiest, followed by the Chin, and then, a long way down the Hiss Scale of Witchy Wickedness, comes the kind-hearted Toad. As
she watches her sisters frolicking in the pool, the Toad is thinking about all the things they’ll have to change when Witch Baby finally comes to live with them.* So lost in thought is she that she doesn’t notice when the Nose hauls herself out of the pool and staggers across to fling herself face-down on a lounger.

  ‘Hey, Toad,’ the Nose hiccups, ‘when’s lunch?’ And then, receiving no answer, she demands, ‘What are you doing, Toad? You look as if you’re miles away.’

  The Toad jumps. She has been miles away, mentally building a twenty-metre-high wall all round Arkon House and patrolling it with guard dogs.

  ‘I … ah … um … I was just thinking about how we’ll have to put an … um, fence round the pool. When Witch Baby comes to stay …’ Seeing the Nose’s blank expression, the Toad explains, ‘You know. For safety. We don’t want her falling in and drow— getting wet. Same with the stairs inside the house. We’ll need stair-gates and a proper guard round the fire in the sit … sit—’ The Toad stops in mid-sentence.

  Steam is pouring out of the Nose’s nose. And her ears. In fact, the Nose looks as if she is about to erupt like a volcano. Seeing this, the Toad backs away, edging towards the pool.

  ‘You have to be the most addle-pated, pea-brained, nit-witted numpty-headed toad alive,’ the Nose begins, her eyes skewering the poor Toad. ‘When will you get it through the wet mush that passes for your brain that we won’t be needing gates on the stairs or guards round the fire or fences round the pool?’

  ‘We wuh-wah … We wuh-wuh-waahhh …?’ the Toad manages, measuring the distance between herself and the safety of the pool. Just in case …

  ‘Wee-wee-wah?’ the Nose mocks. ‘Wee wee woo? Urrrgh. Now you can’t even speak, you fool of a frog.’

  ‘I’m not a – not a fruh-fruh-fruh— Oh, forget it,’ the Toad squawks.

  ‘WhatEVER,’ the Nose roars. ‘You total twerp of a toad, we’re not going to be living here once we’ve got Witch Baby. Soon as she’s ready, we’ll snatch her and head back to our real home on Ben Screeeiiighe—’

  ‘Ben SCREEIIIGHE?’* squeak the Toad and the Chin, their voices sounding like twin forks being dragged across a plate.

  ‘Our true home’ – the Nose sighs happily – ‘where we can get on with the task of educating our Witch Baby without any interruptions from humans, stairs, fires or pools. Bit of a shame about the pool, but never mind, we’ll manage without.’

  The Chin and the Toad stare at the Nose in horror.

  ‘WHAAAAAAT?’ gasps the Chin. ‘You can’t be serious. Ben Screeeilighe? No trees, no flowers, no shops, no pizza – no … NO … NO! Encouraged by her sister’s robust response, the Toad chips in, ‘No way. I’m not going back to Ben Screeeiiighe. I’d rather shrivel up and dry’

  The Nose glares at her sisters. She cannot believe what they are saying, ‘WHAAAAAAAA?’ she shrieks. ‘Call yourselves Hisses? You two are a disgrace to the name of Hiss. If our poor daddy could only hear you speak, why … why, he’d die of shame.’

  ‘He’s already dead,’ the Chin mutters; ‘three hundred and fifty years ago.’

  But the Nose isn’t listening. Furious at her sisters, she is deaf to reason. ‘You two are the Witches of Wuss,’ she howls, springing up so quickly that her sun lounger flips backwards, hurling both itself and the Nose straight into the pool.

  There is a splash, a diabolical scream, and then the Nose leaps straight back out of the pool and runs, howling, towards the open door of Arkon House.

  The Chin groans and shakes her head. ‘How was I to know she would decide to go back into the pool?’

  The Toad creeps to the edge, peers in and winces. OUCH. That had to have hurt.

  ‘Minestrone?’ she guesses.

  ‘Extra hot,’ says the Chin. ‘I thought I’d save you the bother of making lunch. Dear me. Poor Nose. I imagine she won’t be too hungry now.’

  * Kever forget: they may look like two rather odd-looking old ladies with a pet toad, but the Sisters of Hiss are fully paid-up members of an exclusive club that only witches can join. Ordinary humans can try to learn spells, they can attempt to grow chin warts, they might even go so far as to buy broomsticks and dress in black from head to toe, but ordinary humans cannot do magic, no matter how hard they try.

  ** Weird, huh?

  * Much as she is looking forward to welcoming the little girl into her home, the Toad knows that toddlers like nothing better than falling over, poking around with sticky fingers, cramming stuff into their mouths, tripping, stumbling, breaking, spilling, hurling, smashing things, dribbling on everything and generally acting like unstoppable, tiny, one-person disaster units.

  * Ben Screeeiiighe is the tallest, remotest, dangerous-est, lethal-est, snowiest mountain in the north-west of Scotland. Historical Hiss-Home since history began, the correct pronunciation sounds exactly like the noise an unlucky hillwalker makes when they fall off a steep bit. Like ‘SKREEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’

  Three:

  Puppy love

  ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off the muffin – it was just hanging there, wobbling around in mid-air next to where Mum was reading the paper,’ Vivaldi says, unlatching her garden gate and waiting for me to catch up.

  ‘She didn’t see it?’ I’m not all that surprised. Vivaldi’s mum and dad never notice anything. This is why we decided that Way Woof’s invisible puppies should live at Vivaldi’s house rather than mine. With a bit of luck, they’ll grow up to be invisible dogs without Vivaldi’s family being any the wiser. Grown-ups can be so unobservant.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ Vivaldi replies. ‘Not only did she not see it, but Mull was making such a din with his toy tractors that she didn’t hear the Chomping sloffery sounds as Boomstek ate the muffin.’

  Vivaldi is roaring with laughter as she tells me this latest chapter in the continuing story of How to House-train Your Invisible Puppies Without Your Family Noticing.

  ‘And then,’ she gasps as another gale of laughter threatens to blow her words away, ‘and then – back up it came.’

  ‘The muffin?’ I’m horrified. Poor Vivaldi.

  Invisible vomiting puppies? How much worse can it get?*

  ‘All over the floor. DisGUSting. Honestly Lil, I had no idea how utterly revolting puppies can be.’ She stops and smiles fondly. ‘Just as well you and I really like animals, eh?’

  Since WayWoof, the puppies’ invisible mother, lives at my house, I nod in agreement. WayWoof, being an older and more sensible dog, doesn’t steal or regurgitate food very often, but she does smell.*

  WayWoof is really Daisy’s dog, not mine. Daisy is a witch, and like most witches, she has a witchy pet. The choice of which pet for which witch is interesting because I’m not really sure who chooses who. Did Daisy choose WayWoof or was it the other way round? And if so (WayWoof choosing Daisy), aren’t we lucky that WayWoof is such a lovely magical pet?** Apart from her smell, that is.

  Obviously Daisy can see WayWoof, but the only other people who can are Vivaldi and me. For everyone else she is an invisible dog. Actually, as far as I know, Vivaldi and I are the only two people in the world who are aware that Daisy is a Witch Baby. This is because Vivaldi and I were born on the same day under a Blue Moon.*

  Jack says the whole Blue Moon thing about having special powers is a load of rubbish. I think he’s jealous, but he disagrees, and once he’s arm-wrestled me to the floor, he rather breathlessly tells me that Blue Moons only happen when there are two full moons in one month. Nothing special, see, Lily? I wish being a Blue Moonie meant I could beat Jack at arm-wrestling, but then I remind myself that being able to see Way Woof and Vampie and Boomstek is better than using brute force to annoy your sister. So there. Nya-nya nee nyaaaaargh.

  Talking of Vampie and Boomstek, here they are, bounding out of Vivaldi’s front door to greet us. Muffin-thieving little beasts they may well be, but they are also the most adorable little bundles of cream fluff I have ever seen. I can’t resist. I drop my bag, prop my bagpip
es case up against the steps and scoop Vampie up into my arms. Not wanting to be left out, Boomstek puts his paws on my knees and gives a heart-rending howl.

  ‘Awooooooooo.’

  You don’t need to be able to speak Dog to know what this means.* Vampie nibbles at my sleeve, gnaws my school tie and licks under my chin in an unbearably tickly fashion. She’s warm and wriggly and her paws scrabble at my chest as she tries to climb onto my shoulder.

  ‘Here, let me help. No, Vampie. Down,’ Vivaldi says, plucking the puppy off me. Immediately, spotting the vacancy, Boomstek flings himself into my arms and pants in my face. His breath is warm and smells faintly of toast. I hug him tight, burying my face in his velvety coat while he gnaws gently on my fingertips.

  I’m having tea at Vivaldi’s, then we’re going to start practising the music for the concert. I hope Vivaldi’s family know that they risk having their windows blown out when I play my bagpipes. Vivaldi is used to the din I make, but I’m not sure that her baby brother, Brahms, will be too impressed. Or the twins, Mull and Skye. Bagpipes are LOUD. When I play my pipes at home, I have to wear ear-plugs. This is why, many years ago, the Ancient Caledonians used to send the pipers into battle first. If you deafen your enemies, they’ll be too confused to fight properly. However, Vivaldi’s family are friends, not foes, so it might be a good idea to practise outside in the garden, rather than in the house. I look up from nuzzling Boomstek to see Vivaldi’s mum peering at me.

  ‘You OK, Lily?’ she asks, obviously wondering why I am standing on her doorstep, head curled into my chest, making Ahhh, Boomstek kind of noises. Aaaargh. Boomstek has transferred his attentions from my fingertips to my chin. OUCH. Sharp little teeth are testing just how far they can—OUCH!