by David Elvar
‘What do you want, Sophie?’ she shouted. ‘Speak up, you festering little twerp!’
‘I’m sorry you missed breakfast,’ she said. ‘You must be hungry. Would you like some cake?’
For a moment, her teacher was puzzled. Never, ever had any one of this horrible lot offered her anything, least of all cake, and she was a little suspicious about being offered some now.
‘What are you up to, girl?’ she hissed. ‘If you’re hoping to get the class out of doing extra-extra-hard sums, you are very much mistaken.’
‘Not at all,’ said Sophie. ‘I just thought that since you’ve had no breakfast and you’re obviously very hungry, you’d like a little cake to keep you going until lunchtime.’
‘Don’t speak to me about lunchtime!’ her teacher snapped. ‘The eggs will probably be rotten, the bacon will probably be maggoty and it still won’t have started raining. What flavour is the jam in this cake?’
‘Raspberry,’ said Sophie.
‘Hmm,’ said her teacher, ‘I like raspberry. All right, I’ll try a slice. But if I don’t like it, the whole class will have to do the 67½ times table multiplied by 22 and divided by the number they first thought of!’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll like it,’ said Sophie. ‘In fact, I think you’ll find it positively magical.’
She got the cake from her schoolbag and took it to her teacher’s desk. There, she unwrapped it, took out the knife she’d also brought and cut a large slice.
‘Is that it?’ said her teacher, looking down at it suspiciously. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Lots of things,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s very tasty.’
‘It had better be!’ her teacher growled. ‘Now get back to your seat and leave me to eat my breakfast!’
Sophie took herself back to her desk, sat down and waited for things to start happening. Her teacher picked up the slice of cake and took a bite out of it, a large one. Then she sat there chewing for a moment. Then she swallowed. Then she took another one. And another. Soon, the slice of cake was gone. She cut herself another one and ate that, too. Then another. And another. And she went on cutting and eating and cutting and eating until the whole cake was gone.
She sat there licking the last crumbs off her fingers.
‘You were right, Sophie,’ she said. ‘It was tasty. And because it was tasty and because I’m no longer hungry, the whole class will only have to recite the 67½ times table once.’
Sophie didn’t answer. She just sat there at her desk and looked at her. In fact, the whole class was sitting there at their desks and looking at her.
‘What’s the matter, you mangy little toads?’ she roared. ‘Why are you all staring at me like that?’
Sophie said nothing. She just watched, they all watched, as their teacher’s hair started turning a bright shade of yellow.
‘What’s the matter with you all?’ she roared. ‘Have you lost your tongues or something?’
They said nothing. They just watched as her ears turned a brilliant shade of red.
‘Speak to me!’ she roared. ‘Speak to me or I’ll have every one of you writing out the 128¼ times table backwards!’
They said nothing. They just watched as her nose began to grow and turn a funny shade of blue. She looked at Sophie.
‘You! Sophie!’ she shouted. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Um…I don’t know, Miss,’ she said truthfully.
Someone at the back of the class tittered. Miss looked at him hard.
‘What’s so amusing, Adam?’ she yelled as her yellow hair stood up on end and big white blobs appeared round her eyes.
‘Um…you look like a clown, Miss,’ said Adam.
‘I what!’
‘You look like a clown,’ he said again. ‘You look really funny.’
‘Oh no I don’t!’ she shouted.
‘Oh yes you do!’ the whole class shouted back.
‘That does it!’ she roared. ‘For your cheek, you can all take out your books of extra-extra-extra-hard sums!’
‘But it’s true, Miss!’ Sophie protested. ‘If you don’t believe us, look in a mirror.’
Miss rummaged in her handbag for the small hand mirror she kept there. Then she looked in it. Then she screamed.
‘What’s happened!’ she wailed.
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Sophie innocently. ‘Perhaps it’s something you’ve eaten.’
Miss looked in her mirror again, then at Sophie, then she let out a wild shriek and ran from the classroom. The whole class cheered.
They spent the rest of the day laughing and playing and making paper aeroplanes out of pages from their books of extra-extra-extra-hard sums. For the first time in a long time, they had a good day at school. But through it all, Sophie had the distinct witchy feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time she would have to make up a spell.
And she was right. The very next day, Uncle Nesbit came to stay.
SEVEN
Now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that there are two kinds of uncles. The first kind are jolly and always pleased to see you when they come to visit. They take you out to expensive restaurants and stuff you full of cream cakes and jelly, and they slip you sweets and pocket money when your mum and dad aren’t looking. They like playing your favourite games with you, they like reading your favourite comics with you and they always, always try to tickle you when you’re not looking. Most uncles are like that. But Uncle Nesbit isn’t.
It’s not that he’s horrible—far from it, in fact—it’s just that he’s always, always hungry. And when I say hungry, I mean hungry. Uncle Nesbit is the sort of person who just eats and eats and eats. He doesn’t just have seconds at mealtimes, he has thirds, fourths, fifths and sixths. He’d have sevenths if he thought he could get away with it, but as he likes to say, he doesn’t like getting more than his fair share. Uncle Nesbit has been known to use a conveyer belt rather than a knife and fork to get food from his plate to his mouth. Uncle Nesbit has been known to eat a whole Christmas turkey and a whole Christmas pudding in one go, followed by a whole Christmas cake, then burp loudly and say ‘I enjoyed that little snack. When’s lunch?’ But one thing he has never been known to do is refuse food.
You may be wondering how he can afford to eat so much. This fact is, he can’t. You see, Uncle Nesbit doesn’t have a job. This isn’t because he’s useless—far from it, in fact—it’s more that he has very strange ideas about jobs. Where most people spend the whole day working and take a lunch break, he spends the whole day eating and takes a work break. So as you may imagine, there aren’t that many people around that are particularly eager to give him a job.
In fact, the last job he had was a complete disaster. Like most people on their first day, he was shown round the place by the boss. He was supposed to be learning things, important things like where his office would be, where all the fire exits were and things like that. What he actually learned was where the sandwich machine was, where the chocolate machine was and what times the staff canteen would be open. You can probably guess what happened next. After the boss had left him to get on with things, he spent the first half of the morning working his way through the contents of the sandwich machine. He spent the second half of the morning working his way through the contents of the chocolate machine. Then he went to lunch. Early.
He ate everything on the menu. All of it. He ate all the fish and chips, he ate all the sausage and mash. He ate two trays of pasta, one of curry and rice, and six of vegetables. Then he had pudding. He had syrup pudding and custard, rice pudding and jam, ice cream and jelly, two whole trifles and a tub of yoghurt. Then the rest of the staff arrived for their lunch. But they were too late. Uncle Nesbit had eaten it all. The next thing the boss showed him was the door.
And this is why Uncle Nesbit doesn’t have a job, and this is also why he can’t afford to feed that enormous appetite of his. So he visits his relations, and because he visits them, they then have to feed him. Last year, he visited Sophie’s Uncle
Joe and Auntie Mo. He only left after all the local supermarkets ran out of food and had to close down. The year before that, he visited Sophie’s Uncle Lawrence and Auntie Florence. He only left after the dining-room table collapsed under the weight of another little snack he’d made for himself. And now he was visiting Sophie’s mum and dad, and it couldn’t really be said that they were particularly pleased to see him.
Sophie thought something might be up when she arrived home from school to find a brand new cement mixer standing in the front drive. She knew it couldn’t be because they were having an extension built or a new floor put in or anything like that so she went to ask her mum what was going on. Her mum looked wearily at her and sighed.
‘Guess who’s coming to stay,’ she said.
Sophie thought for a moment but she couldn’t begin to guess who might be coming to stay that would need a cement mixer.
‘Sorry,’ she said eventually, ‘I can’t think.’
‘Well,’ said her mum, ‘who in the family eats cakes that are so huge they can only be mixed up in a cement mixer?’
All at once, Sophie understood. And as she understood, she had the distinctly witchy feeling that the next few weeks were going to be very interesting indeed. And she was right. Uncle Nesbit arrived that evening.
He arrived as he always did, with full suitcase and empty stomach. He breezed in, plonked his case on the floor and said:
‘Hello, Bill. Hello, Jill. Hello, Sophie. What’s for supper?’
‘We knew you were coming,’ said her dad, ‘so we’ve prepared something really special. A giant steak and kidney pudding, three dozen roast potatoes, two apple pies and a bathtub of custard.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Uncle Nesbit, ‘but what are you all having?’
‘Er…I’m not hungry,’ said her dad glumly as he realised what this meant.
‘I’m on a diet,’ said her mum, just as glumly.
‘I had a big lunch,’ said Sophie, even more glumly.
And so they had to sit and watch Uncle Nesbit work his way through a giant steak and kidney pudding, three dozen roast potatoes, two apple pies and a bathtub of custard. They went to bed that night feeling very hungry.
It was the same every night. Supper would be served, three small helpings for Sophie, her mum and her dad, and one extra-extra-extra-large one for Uncle Nesbit. And while they ate, Uncle Nesbit would ask Sophie if she’d had a nice day at school.
‘No,’ Sophie would say, ‘I had a horrible day. The caretaker used treacle to polish the floor and we all got stuck.’
‘That’s interesting, Sophie,’ Uncle Nesbit would say. ‘Are you going to eat that sausage?’
And Sophie would sigh no, she wasn’t going to and yes, he could have it. And that’s how it went for the whole week.
‘That’s interesting, Sophie. Are you going to eat that doughnut?’
‘That’s interesting, Sophie. Are you going to eat that cheesecake?’
‘That’s interesting, Sophie. Are you going to eat those dumplings?’
By the end of that first week, Sophie was feeling very hungry indeed. So were her parents.
‘He’s eating us out of house and home,’ said her mum.
‘He’s got to go,’ said her dad, ‘before we all starve.'
Sophie said nothing. Sophie was thinking. And she was thinking how she could help. There was really only one way…
EIGHT
In her witch’s lair, she took her book of spells from its shelf and began flicking through the pages. So far, she’d accidentally cast one spell on her nice parents and deliberately cast another spell on her horrible teacher. Now she had to deliberately cast a spell on her not-horrible-but-always-hungry uncle. Given what she’d already managed, she knew it couldn’t be too difficult. She’d already decided that she didn’t want to make him just disappear (as had happened to her parents), nor did she want to turn him into a clown to be laughed at (as had happened to her teacher), she just wanted to make him leave. Maybe then she would get to finish her dinner in peace.
As she flicked, she glanced over each recipe in turn. And as she glanced, she could tell that this Delia Poshnosh definitely had some pretty strange ideas about cooking, but there was bound to be something that would appeal to Uncle Nesbit. It was just a question of finding it. Only then did it occur to her that her ever-hungry uncle would quite likely eat just about anything that was set in front of him. And that being so, all she really needed to do was choose any one of these strange recipes and leave the rest to his huge appetite. Suddenly, things were a whole lot easier.
She stopped flicking and scanning. Then she closed her eyes, held out a finger and plonked it hard on the page. Whatever recipe it lands on, she told herself silently, is the one I’ll use for my spell. She opened her eyes. Her finger had landed squarely on one single recipe. It was for Parsnip Fritters stuffed with Mango Marmalade and grilled leftovers. It sounded decidedly yucky but it also sounded as though she could use just about anything that came to hand for the leftovers, even if they weren’t actually left over. Her mind was made up. She picked up her cauldron, tucked her book of spells under her arm and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Sophie checked in the larder. Her mum, she found, had parsnips. Her mum also had marmalade, not the mango stuff the recipe said but the ordinary stuff. It would have to do. She unloaded parsnips and marmalade and several tins of various things onto the table. Then she checked in the fridge. Her mum, she found, had lots of things there, too. No leftovers, though, which was hardly surprising given that Uncle Nesbit never left anything, on either his plate or anyone else’s. But what she found there, she emptied out onto the table, too. She was ready.
Into her cauldron went the parsnips, in went the marmalade. In went jam, pickle, mustard, eggs and a tin of tomato soup. It was enough to start with. She would add the rest as she stirred and chanted her spell. She picked up a spoon and made a start.
Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble.
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Uncle Nesbit’s come to stay,
but you won’t hear us shout Hooray!
’Cos you’d suspect, if you saw him,
that this man will eat anything.
And you’d be right, he eats and eats.
Breads and cakes and fish and meats,
it all goes down. He never stops,
he eats and eats until he drops.
So this I’m cooking, this for him.
Maybe it will make him slim.
Maybe it will stop him eating
(now that’s a thought that takes some beating).
What, I hear you asking, is it?
What I hope will end his visit.
Fin of fish and leg of lamb,
and this time with some raspberry jam.
Caviar (served by the ounce)
And tara…And tara…And something else I can’t pronounce.
Something special goes in next,
last year’s Christmas pudding mixed
with peanut butter and porky sausage,
all chopped up in oatmeal porridge.
In goes next some strawberry jelly
with mouldy cheese (all green and smelly).
With it, too, a ginger biscuit…?
—Maybe no, I shouldn’t risk it.
Not ready yet is it to cook,
but I must stop and take a look.
She stopped stirring to take a look. The mixture was a little runny with some very strange lumps in it. But then, she’d only just started this spell and there was a long way to go yet. And she had to admit, the other two spells she’d made hadn’t looked much at this stage and look what they’d gone on to do. She went on stirring and rhyming and adding ingredients.
Fin of lamb and leg of fish,
and half a stem of horseradish,
smelly cream and eggs all rotten
(what comes next, I’ve quite forgotten).
Ah yes, the milk, the sugar, too.
To leave th
ose out would never do.
Now how about some chopped up chilli
with peppercorns? Now, don’t be silly!
Then try some frozen prawns instead
with cherry pie and beetroot red
and cold ice-cream with fiery mustard
and Irish Stew with lumpy custard
and toasted, burned and blackened bread
on which I’ve put some chocolate spread,
sliced banana, nuts and pickle
(I hope all this won’t make him sick-le).
Nothing left to add, I think,
except, perhaps, the kitchen sink
and bacon rinds with lemon curd.
He’ll scoff it all without a word,
then wash it down with a chocolate malt
flavoured with a pinch of salt.
He’ll raise his glass, take a slurp
and say with one almighty burp,
“That was good but I must go.
It’s been such fun but cheerio.”
He’ll grab his hat and coat and leave,
and such a sigh of joy we’ll heave.
Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble.
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Let this spell please be a winner.
Maybe then I’ll keep my dinner.
Sophie stopped stirring to look in her cauldron at the strange mixture she’d put together. It still didn’t look anything like the picture in Delia Poshnosh’s book, but then it wasn’t cooked yet and she had put rather more ingredients in it than the recipe had said. All she could do now was pour it into a plastic container, shove it in the microwave and hope for the best. She was just in time. As she slammed the microwave door shut, who should walk in but the very person this spell was intended for? Who should walk in but Uncle Nesbit?
NINE
‘Hello, Sophie,’ he said. ‘Did you have a nice day at school?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I had a horrible day. The headmaster forgot to put his trousers on and wouldn’t stop complaining about how cold his bum was.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Uncle Nesbit, glancing hopefully at the microwave. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
‘Um…well…actually,’ she said carefully, ‘I’m just cooking something. Would you like some?’
