Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  Excuse me while I – clear my sinuses?’

  Greymatter stopped, looking puzzled.

  ‘Ah. That’s where we have a bit of stage business,’ explained Pongwiffy. ‘You’ve got hay fever. You have to stop and blow your nose. It’s the only word that rhymes with Highnesses, see. We were rather pleased with that bit, weren’t we, Hugo? Carry on.’

  ‘The Babes are gone! There is no trace!

  It is a most mysterious case.

  I wonder where those Babes can be.

  Oh, can you help, Princesses three?’

  There was a long pause. Macabre gave Sludgegooey an almighty nudge.

  ‘Oh – is it me? Right. Um –

  ‘We saw them pass a short while back.

  They went along that little track.

  They have been taken off by force

  By a Scottish woman on a horse.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Macabre informed everybody proudly. ‘Hear that, everyone? Ma bit’s comin’ up soon.’

  ‘What about the fairy?’ demanded Sourmuddle again. ‘I’m warning you, Pongwiffy, I’m not waiting much longer. It’s the fairy that everyone’s anxious to see, after all.’

  ‘Dick Whittington is still conspicuous by his absence, I note,’ remarked Sharkadder with more than a touch of pique.

  ‘I think it’s time the Pied Piper got a look-in, don’t you, Vernon?’ complained Ratsnappy.

  ‘What about Cleopatra? clamoured Bendyshanks. ‘Where’s she, I’d like to know?’

  ‘And another thing,’ piped up Scrofula. ‘What about Barry? If Sherlock Holmes can have a faithful owl, why can’t Rapunzel have a faithful vulture?’

  ‘It isn’t possible,’ explained Pongwiffy wearily. ‘There just isn’t room in this panto for all the Familiars. Those who haven’t got a part get to do other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like scenery-shifting. And Noises Off.’

  This statement was greeted by quite a lot of noises off, most of them raised in shrill complaint.

  Pongwiffy and Hugo exchanged meaningful glances. It seemed that rehearsals were going to be a bit of a trial.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Preparations

  Putting on a pantomime is not something that can be taken lightly – as Pongwiffy soon learnt.

  To begin with, there was the question of music. The Witchway Rhythm Boys were the obvious choice, being local, so Pongwiffy went along to the specially soundproofed hut where they rehearsed.

  ‘How much do we get paid?’ enquired Arthur, the small Dragon who played the piano. (Dragons rarely become pianists, but Arthur was unusual. In fact, he was quite good, apart from an unfortunate tendency to set his instrument on fire during the faster passages.)

  ‘What d’you mean, paid?’ snapped Pongwiffy. ‘This is a great honour, you know, being asked to perform in my panto.’

  ‘We always get paid for gigs,’ Arthur told her. ‘Union rules.’

  ‘Yeah, man,’ agreed Filth the Fiend, Sludgegooey’s Familiar, who played drums in his spare time. ‘Gotta come up with the bread.’

  ‘Toim’s money,’ nodded O’Brian, the Leprechaun, who played penny whistle.

  ‘Well, I’m flabbergasted,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Your selfishness defies belief. After all the employment we Witches have given you in the past.’

  ‘Yes, but we never got paid for it, did we?’ Arthur reminded her. ‘We’re getting popular now. We can pick and choose. We’ve got the Skeleton disco next week and the Zombie barn dance and a Vampire ruby wedding Sunday fortnight. We’re an up-and-coming band, we are. No pay, no play. That’s the deal, right, boys?’

  ‘To be sure,’ said O’Brian firmly.

  ‘You said it, man,’ agreed Filth.

  So Pongwiffy had to cough up.

  Then there was the question of costumes. After a bit of thought, Pongwiffy decided to hire them. It virtually emptied the kitty, but costumes are one of the most important aspects of any production and Witches aren’t known for their nifty work with a needle. She got Hugo to take everybody’s measurements and sent off a list of requirements to Gentleman Joe’s Theatrical Costume Hire Company, which advertised in The Daily Miracle and promised to deliver.

  Then there was the scenery to consider. Pongwiffy engaged the services of a local artist, a Vampire by the name of Vincent Van Ghoul, who wore a red beret and matching smock and lived in paint-splattered squalor in the small shed he grandly called his studio. Vincent eked out a living as a portrait artist and welcomed the chance to do something a bit different.

  ‘There are three scenes,’ Pongwiffy told him. ‘The first is Sherlock Holmes’s study.’

  ‘Great,’ said Vincent eagerly. ‘I’ll paint it red. Nice vase of red poppies on the table. Bowl of tomatoes. That sort of thing.’

  ‘The next is a woodland glade,’ explained Pongwiffy.

  ‘No problem,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ll set it in autumn. At sunset. Nice red trees and a carpet of red leaves, I feel.’

  ‘Hmm. And then there’s the ballroom scene.’

  ‘I see it all!’ cried Vincent. ‘Red velvet curtains with pots of red geraniums!’

  That’s the trouble with artistic Vampires, of course. They are red-fixated.

  Then there was publicity to think about. There were posters to be designed. After a bit of thought, Pongwiffy came up with the following:

  Grand Pantomime

  The Witchway Players

  proudly present

  TERROR IN THE WOOD

  December 20 7.00 sharp

  Witchway Hall –

  Bring Your Fiends

  (STRICTLY NO GOBLINS!!)

  There were programmes to be printed and special invitations to be sent out to important people. Pongwiffy wrote a list of these, starting with royalty. The local Royal Family consisted of King Futtout, Queen Beryl and their daughter, Princess Honeydimple. They weren’t particularly popular, but as their palace bordered Witchway Wood, it would have been unneighbourly not to send them an invitation.

  Scott Sinister, the famous film star, was also down for an invite.

  ‘I thought you’d gone off him,’ Hugo reminded Pongwiffy, peering over her shoulder at the VIP list.

  ‘So did I,’ sighed Pongwiffy, ‘but when it comes down to it, there is a corner of my heart that will be for ever Scott’s. We’ve had our ups and downs, Scott and me, but that’s what makes our relationship so excitingly special. I’m going to send him a handmade invite with “Don’t Bring Lulu” at the bottom.’

  (This will make sense to readers who have followed the previous exploits of Pongwiffy. If this doesn’t include you – no matter. It is enough to know that Pongwiffy and Luscious Lulu Lamarre, the great actor’s girlfriend, Do Not Get On.)

  Other VIPs included Pierre de Gingerbeard (provided he was well enough) and the Yeti Brothers, Conf and Spag, who ran all the fast food establishments in the area. The only reason they appeared on the list was because Pongwiffy was rather hoping they might slip her a free pizza.

  ‘Vot about ze Vizards?’ Hugo reminded her.

  ‘Oh, poo!’ said Pongwiffy. ‘What do we want silly old Wizards in the audience for?’

  ‘Ronald vill be ’appy,’ Hugo remarked. ‘ ’ E don’t vant it known zat ’e in Vitch panto. ’E don’t vant to kiss Vitches. ’E sink all ’is friends vill laugh at ’im.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Pongwiffy, and promptly added the Wizards to the VIP list. ‘They’ll all have to pay though,’ she added. ‘The whole point is to raise money.’

  Then, armed with a hammer and a mouthful of nails, she went scuttling off to pin posters to trees.

  It wasn’t really necessary. By now, word had got around. The Familiars had their hands full chasing away curious onlookers who crowded around Witchway Hall every evening, peering through the windows in the hope of getting a glimpse of rehearsals in progress.

  And so the weeks went by in a dizzy whirl of activity – and almost before anyone realised it, autumn had
given way to winter and the grand opening night was almost upon them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fancy Dress

  Plugugly was skulking behind a bush down in Witchway Wood, straining to hear the conversation of two Skeletons who stood a short distance away, examining a poster displayed on a tree.

  ‘Looks like the Witches are putting on some sort of show, darling,’ remarked the first Skeleton. You could tell he was a male Skeleton, because he was wearing a bow tie.

  ‘Hmm,’ said his female companion, who was all decked out in a blonde wig. ‘A pantomime, no less. Are we doing anything Saturday night, darling?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the other. ‘Might as well go. Everyone else’ll be there.’

  ‘Except the Goblins, of course,’ nodded the bewigged one. ‘They’re barred. The Witches won’t let them attend anything these days. See?’ She pointed a finger bone. ‘Strictly No Goblins. And quite right too.’

  They laughed, linked arms and strolled on.

  Ears burning, Plugugly hurried back to the cave to tell the others.

  Eagerly, he burst in, blurting out, ‘Guess wot? Dere’s a pantymine, an’ . . .’

  ‘Ssssh!’ said everyone.

  All eyes were on Stinkwart, who was standing on a handy rock. He was wearing two large, branching twigs on his head and appeared to have reddened his nose with crushed holly berries.

  ‘We’re inspectin’ each uvver’s costumes fer the fancy dress ball,’ explained Hog. ‘We’re tryin’ ter guess ’oo we are.’

  ‘Sorry,’ whispered Plugugly and sat down. This was important. The bad news about the pantomime could wait.

  ‘Right,’ said Stinkwart. ‘ ’Oo am I?’

  The Goblins stared with blank faces.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ urged Stinkwart. ‘It’s obvious, innit?’

  Shrugs all round.

  ‘Some kinda tree?’ guessed Lardo.

  ‘Nah, nah! Wassa matter wiv you? Look at the nose. It’s red, innit? So ’oo am I?’

  ‘A red-nosed tree,’ said Lardo. Once his mind was set on a certain course, it never deviated.

  ‘Ah, to heck wiv it!’ said Stinkwart, disgusted. ‘I’m Rupert, ain’t I? Rupert the red-nosed wassit.’

  And he tore off his antlers, climbed off the rock and sat down in a sulk.

  ‘I always thort it was Randolph,’ said Hog to no one in particular.

  It was Eyesore’s turn next. He took his place on the rock, wearing what appeared to be an ancient bird’s nest on his head. Bits of loose straw curled down to his shoulders. From his pocket, he took a tin bowl and a spoon. He batted his eyelashes, simpered and struck a pose.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Who am I?’

  Another blank silence.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ said Eyesore helpfully. ‘There’s porridge in this bowl.’

  Still no offers.

  ‘I’m a little girlie,’ prodded Eyesore. ‘I’m a little girlie wiv long yellow hair an’ I got a bowl of porridge. Oh, oh, I’m scared of the bears. Who does that remind you of?’

  The Goblins were at a loss.

  ‘Goldisocks!’ exploded Eyesore at length. ‘I’m Goldisocks, fer cryin’ out loud. I got the wig an’ everythin’. Fancy not gettin’ that.’

  And he flounced off the rock in a huff, tossing his bird’s-nest curls petulantly.

  ‘Dis is no good,’ burst out Plugugly. He simply couldn’t help it. ‘Dis is a waste o’ time. Dere ain’t no way we’re gonna win de fancy dress prize unless we can come up wid somefin’ better dan dis.’

  ‘What about you, then?’ demanded Eyesore, sullenly pulling his nest to pieces.

  ‘Yeah, go on, Plug,’ came the chorus. ‘Wot’s your costume, then?’

  ‘I ain’t got one,’ confessed Plugugly lamely.

  ‘Well, that’s just great, that is,’ said Sproggit spitefully. ‘ ’ E picks ’oles in everyone else’s costume, but ’e ain’t even got one.’

  Plugugly sighed heavily. In fact, he had thought a great deal about his costume. That’s why he’d been loitering down in the Wood. He’d been trying to get some inspiration. He knew he wanted to be something spectacular, something that would cause jaws to gape and people to say things like, ‘Good ol’ Plugugly, trust him to come up with a Good Idea like that.’ He could imagine himself receiving the prize from the Great Gobbo himself. He could visualise the thumps on the back, the cheers. He could see the scene. All he needed was the idea.

  But he couldn’t come up with one.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look. I know you done yer best. I’m just sayin’ we gotta do better dan dis if we’re gonna win de prize. Dat’s all I’m sayin’.’

  ‘Know what’d be good?’ said Slopbucket with a wistful air. ‘Goin’ an’ buyin’ ourselves proper costumes from a proper shop. That’d be good.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Plugugly, ‘ ’cept dere ain’t no proper costume shop round ’ere. An’ even if dere was, we ain’t got no money. An’ even if we ’ad de money, dey wouldn’t serve us, ’cos we’s Goblins. An’ dat reminds me. Dere’s a Witch pantymine on Saturday night. Everyone’s talkin’ about it. Dere’s posters all over de Wood. An’ we’s banned. I ’eard a coupla Skelingtons read it out. “No Goblins”, dey said. Den dey larfed.’

  ‘What’s a pantymine?’ Lardo wanted to know.

  ‘I dunno,’ confessed Plugugly. ‘But I wouldn’t mind de chance to find out.’

  ‘It comes to somethin’, don’t it?’ said Hog bitterly. ‘No costumes, no money, no dinner an’ banned from the pantymine. We must be the unluckiest Goblins in the world.’

  They sat in a dejected circle.

  ‘What we need is one o’ them there things beginnin’ with co,’ said Stinkwart, very suddenly and very obscurely.

  ‘What – you mean like a coconut?’ said Lardo hesitantly.

  ‘No, no. Longer. You know. When somethin’ ’appens out o’ the blue. One o’ them flukes o’ fate. You call it an amazin’ co summink. It’s on the tip of me teef. You know.’

  ‘Well, person’ly, I ain’t expectin’ a coconut,’ remarked Lardo, pleased with himself for having thought of one and not willing to let it go.

  ‘Look, it’s not a coconut, all right?’ cried Stinkwart. ‘It’s – it’s like when you got a fancy fer a big fruit cake, an’ you ain’t got one and then, just like that, there’s a knock at the door an’ there’s yer granny! An’ wot’s she got in ’er ’and?’

  ‘A coconut?’

  ‘No, no,’ began Stinkwart, beside himself with frustration. ‘That’s not wot I’m getting at –’

  But he didn’t get any further, because just at that moment there came a tentative knock at the front boulder. The Goblins jumped and looked at each other.

  ‘Who’s that, then?’ hissed Eyesore.

  ‘Probably Stinkwart’s granny,’ suggested Hog. ‘And we were just talking about her too. What an amazin’ coincidence.’

  There was a loud clump as Stinkwart passed out on the floor.

  ‘I hope she’s brought the fruit cake,’ crowed young Sproggit.

  ‘And the coconut,’ added Lardo happily.

  Plugugly went to answer the boulder. Outside, it was sleeting. A small man with a whuffly moustache stood in a frozen puddle and touched his cap. A short way behind him was a large cart pulled by a bored-looking horse. Written across the side, in big, bold letters, were the words:

  GENTLEMAN JOE’S THEATRICAL

  COSTUME HIRE COMPANY

  ‘Yeah?’ said Plugugly. ‘Whatcha want?’

  ‘Sorry ter bovver yer, squire,’ said the small man. ‘Wonder if you can help me? I’m looking for Witchway Hall. I got an important delivery, see. Think I musta taken a wrong turn.’

  ‘I think you must ’ave,’ said Plugugly. ‘You’re right off track ’ere. Dis ’ere’s Goblin Territory. You need a special secret password to go through ’ere.’

  As he spoke, the rest of the Goblins came slinking up behind him.

  ‘
Wassee want, Plug?’ asked Slopbucket.

  ‘ ’ E’s lost ’is way,’ explained Plugugly. ‘ ’ E’s got a delivery ter make to Witchway Hall. I’m tellin’ ’im ’e needs ter say de secret password.’

  ‘Wot, you mean “Frogspawn”?’ enquired Eyesore.

  ‘Dat’s de one,’ agreed Plugugly. ‘Right,’ he added, fixing the small man with a stern stare. ‘Wot’s de password?’

  ‘Erm – frogspawn?’

  ‘Correck. Right, you go down past de stingin’ nettle clump, right, den you take a left, right, by de old cooker an’ den a right, right? Or is it left?’

  ‘Straight, innit?’ interrupted Hog helpfully.

  ‘Yeah, well, one o’ dem. Den you follow de trail down an’ around a bit an’ den yer in de Wood. De Hall’s in de middle somewhere. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the small man doubtfully. ‘Very kind o’ you, squire.’

  ‘Dat’s all right,’ said Plugugly. ‘Mind ’ow you go’. He watched him trudge away and climb into the driver’s seat.

  ‘By de way,’ he called, ‘by de way, wassit you’re deliverin’?’

  ‘Costumes,’ replied the man, and clicked his teeth. The horse raised its eyes to heaven and lumbered off down the slope.

  The Goblins looked at each other. They were too shocked to speak for quite some time. At last, Lardo spoke for all of them.

  ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is what I call an amazing coconut.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rehearsals

  In Witchway Hall, a rehearsal was in progress. The current scene was a big, troublesome one, involving Lady Macbeth, half the Pantomime Horse, the lost Babes, Cleopatra, the Pied Piper, Dick Whittington and the fairy. As always, there was a lot of argument going on, mainly around the question of Lady Macbeth’s transport. Macabre was flatly refusing to ride half a Pantomime Horse, claiming that she was a serious actress and it would make her look ridiculous. Gaga was prancing around in the wings, practising blowing through her nostrils.

  ‘You’ve got to,’ said Pongwiffy wearily. ‘I’ve ordered the horse suit. I’ve written it in. Look, it’s there in the script. “Enter Lady Macbeth on half a Pantomime Horse.” That’s what Gaga wanted to be and I had to write her in somewhere. You don’t want to do Gaga out of her part, do you? She’s looking forward to it, aren’t you, Gaga?’