Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  Plink.

  It really was a rather satisfying sound. She did it again.

  Plink. Plink, plink. Plink, plink, plink, plink, plink, plink, plink . . .

  ‘Vot in ze vorld you got now?’ said a voice from behind. It was Hugo and he was clutching his Little Book of Hamster Wit and Wisdom.

  ‘It’s a guitar,’ said Pongwiffy happily. ‘I’ve just found it. Good, isn’t it?’

  ‘It only got vun string?’

  ‘Yes. So? That’s all you need to go plink. Listen.’ Plink. ‘See?’

  Hugo looked less than impressed.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘It’s great! Just look at it. It’s an antique. Probably quite valuable.’

  ‘Zen vhy it in ze Dump?’

  ‘Well, obviously, it got thrown away by mistake. See here, look. It’s got lovely patterns carved on the neck. A sort of raspberryish design. Who knows what famous person might have played this? It may even have belonged to Wild Raspberry Johnson himself.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Surely you’ve heard of him? Wild Raspberry Johnson, the famous Wandering Woodsman? Or Rasp, as we fans affectionately refer to him. He sort of rasps when he sings. He’s got a gravelly sort of voice. Shame he’s not around any more.’

  ‘He gone? Vhere he go?’

  ‘Dunno. He’s a Wandering Woodsman. Probably wandered off. He was good, though, in his day.’

  ‘Ven zis singing Raspberry play guitar, ’e can do more zan plink?’

  ‘Of course!’ scoffed Pongwiffy. ‘But then, so will I. I just need to get it fixed, that’s all. I’ll take it along to the Witchway Rhythm Boys – they’ll do it. It’ll cost me an arm and a leg, mind. But it’ll be worth it. Then I have to learn to play. But that’ll be easy, because I’m very musical.’

  ‘You are?’ Hugo sounded surprised.

  ‘Oh yes,’ boasted Pongwiffy. ‘It’s in the blood. What’s with all the questions, anyway? Every time you speak, you ask a question. Why?’

  ‘A vise ’Amster alvays ask questions. Many a truth falls from ze most unlikely lips.’

  ‘Is that a quote from your stupid book?’

  ‘Suppose it is?’

  ‘Are you implying that my lips are unlikely?’

  ‘Suppose I am?’

  ‘Are you going to speak in questions for evermore?’

  ‘Suppose I do?’

  ‘I’m going in,’ announced Pongwiffy, bored now. ‘I can’t be bothered to play silly games with you. I’m going to have a good look at my guitar.’ She smiled down at her new treasure and gave it another little rub. ‘You know, it’s funny I should find this now. I was just saying to Sharky that all the good old ways of amusing ourselves have gone. Hey! We could build a porch on the hovel. Then I can sit out in my rocking chair on hot evenings, looking out over the Dump, with a glass of iced bogwater, playing my guitar. When I’ve learned, of course. But that shouldn’t bother me, because I’m a natural . . .’

  Chattering away, cradling the guitar in her arms, she marched back to the path, with Hugo trotting in her wake. He kept a firm grip on The Little Book of Hamster Wit and Wisdom. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Goblins in Cars

  It was a Tuesday night, and the Gaggle of Goblins who lived in a cave on the foothills of the Lower Misty Mountains should have been out hunting. (Traditionally, they always hunt on a Tuesday. Traditionally, they never catch anything. They are probably the worst hunters in the entire world, but that doesn’t stop them trying.)

  However, on this particular Tuesday, most of them were laid up with a very nasty dose of the Squidgets. This is a malady common to Goblins, brought on by eating fermented nettle soup. Goblin digestive systems can handle nettle soup with no ill effects as long as it’s fresh. But when it starts to ferment, that’s when the problems start. Symptoms include embarrassing noises, headaches, runny noses and itchy ears. The only cure is to lie down and groan until it goes away.

  Five of the seven Goblins in the Gaggle were afflicted: Stinkwart, Slopbucket, Hog, Eyesore and Lardo. Only Plugugly and young Sproggit were unaffected. This is because they were fighting each other at suppertime and didn’t notice the others finishing up the soup until it was too late. Just as well. A black eye is nothing compared to the Squidgets.

  So. Plugugly and Sproggit had gone off hunting as usual, leaving their stricken comrades moaning in the cave. They said they’d be gone all night, so everyone was quite surprised when they came rushing back after only an hour or so, bursting with exciting news.

  ‘Whassup?’ croaked Eyesore, squinting at the dazzling moonlight that streamed into the cave. ‘Ooh, me head. Shut the boulder, I can’t stand the glare.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Slopbucket, clutching his bucket. ‘We’s sick, remember? You is s’posed to come in on tippy toes wiv a bunch o’ grapes, not all this runnin’ an’ shoutin’. What’s all the fuss about anyway?’

  Groaning, the sickly Goblins struggled to a sitting position.

  ‘We just seen sumfin’ good,’ burst out Plugugly.

  ‘Was it a doctor?’ asked Hog, scratching his ears like mad. ‘A doctor in a white coat, wiv a stifflescope an’ a big bottle o’ anti-Squidget pills? That’d be good.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Plugugly. ‘Better. Seen it wiv our own eyes, didn’t we, Sproggit?’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Sproggit, nodding eagerly. ‘Wiv our own eyes. Go on, Plug. Tell.’

  ‘Well,’ said Plugugly, drawing it out for dramatic effect. ‘W-e-e-ll, me ’n’ Sproggit was checkin’ de traps down in de Wood . . .’

  ‘. . . an’ it was all quiet,’ chipped in Sproggit.

  ‘Yeah. It was. Nobody about. “Funny,” I says to Sproggit.’

  ‘ ’E did,’ Sproggit assured the company. ‘That’s just what ’e said.’

  ‘ “Funny,” I says. An’ we happens to be passin’ dat ole Witch Macabre’s cottage at de time, an’ I says to Sproggit, “ ’Ere! What’s dat funny blue light comin’ out de winder?” ’

  ‘That’s what ’e said,’ corroborated Sproggit, nodding vigorously.

  ‘Yeah,’ continued Plugugly. ‘So we tiptoes up to de winder, right, Sproggit?’

  ‘Right. We tiptoes up. An’ we looks in, an’ we sees it.’

  ‘Sees what?’ came the united chorus. For the moment, the Goblins had forgotten their illness and were sitting up, all ears. They had been confined to a cave for the last week or so, remember. This was heady stuff.

  ‘It were a Big Magic Box,’ explained Plugugly. ‘And dere was movin’ pictures on it. And guess what de pictures was? Goblins in Cars!’

  There was an electrified silence.

  ‘What – real cars?’ breathed Stinkwart, unable to believe his ears.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What – Goblins in cars?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You mean – real cars wiv Goblins in ’em?’

  ‘Yep. Dey was drivin’ dem,’ Plugugly elaborated. ‘Dey was racin’ dem round an’ round. Dey went, vroooooom! Vrooooom! Eeeeeeeeeek!’

  Plugugly raced his hand to and fro in the air, simulating as near as possible the sight and sound of the racing cars. Sproggit, wild with excitement, joined in. They smacked palms in mid-air, miming a crash.

  ‘Piaaaoooooow!’ they cried. ‘Boom! Ouch!’

  ‘Sometimes dey crash,’ added Plugugly, by way of explanation.

  ‘They do,’ affirmed Sproggit. ‘It’s great.’

  The rest of the Gaggle sat struggling with this for a bit. Goblins are not quick on the uptake. It was too much information in one go. Their brains were overloading.

  ‘So, this Box,’ said Stinkwart after a bit. ‘It’s Magic, you say?’

  ‘Must be,’ said Plugugly. ‘Movin’ pictures, what else? An’ you know what? Dey all got ’em. De Witches, de Trolls, de Skellingtons – everyone. Everywhere you goes, dey all got a Magic Box so dey can watch Goblins in Cars.’

  ‘ ’Cept us,’ added
Sproggit, sounding bitter.

  ‘Who were the Goblins in the cars?’ Eyesore wanted to know. ‘Do we know ’em?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Plugugly crossly. ‘We knows dem all right, an’ we doesn’t like dem. It’s dat outlaw Gaggle up in de Misty Mountains. De ones wiv de levver jackets. De Grottys. Dey gatecrashed our cave warmin’ dat time, remember? An’ now dey is on de Magic Box. You shoulda seen dem showin’ off. Just ’cos dey got cars.’

  There was a lot of teeth-gnashing and resentful thumping of fists into palms at this. (Goblins are very competitive. The Annual Inter-Gaggle Punch-Up is a highlight in the Goblin calendar. The Grottys win every time. It is a sore point.)

  ‘Them Grottys!’ growled Hog. ‘Wiv their cars an’ – an’ their jackets! Grrr!’

  ‘Think they’re tough!’ sneered Lardo.

  ‘They are tough,’ Slopbucket reminded him. ‘They won the Punch-Up Cup three years runnin’.’

  ‘Sixty-five years runnin’, weren’t it?’ disputed Eyesore.

  ‘Three, six, seventy-nine, who cares?’ said Slopbucket carelessly. ‘We can’t count anyway.’ Which was true.

  ‘Since when ’ave they ’ad cars?’ asked Hog, sick with jealousy. ‘Last time I heard, they only ’ad one little old rusty tricycle between ’em. ’Ow come they got cars now?’

  ‘ ’ S not fair! ’S not fair!’ shouted Lardo, and the others joined in as soon as they got the hang of the words.

  ‘Know wot?’ said Plugugly suddenly. ‘I fink I feel an idear comin’ on.’

  The chanting trailed off into a respectful silence. All eyes were on Plugugly. Goblins rarely got ideas.

  ‘I bet I know what it is!’ Sproggit said, nearly exploding with excitement. ‘I bet you’re gonna say we oughter get one o’ them Magic Boxes an’ bring it back up ’ere to the cave an’, an’, an’, watch it every night, like everyone else. Am I right?’

  ‘No,’ said Plugugly, to everyone’s surprise. ‘Dat’s not it. What do we want an ole Magic Box for? We dunno where to get one an’, anyway, we ain’t got no money so we’d ’ave to steal it. An’ den dey’d find out we done it and take it away again. An’ even if we did manage to keep it, knowin’ our luck, somefin’ ’d go wrong. We’d drop it or break it or de Magic’d turn on us or somefin’. We’d best steer clear o’ Magic Boxes. Dey ain’t a Goblin Fing.’

  Actually, this was rather wise of Plugugly. Goblins and Magic are like bacon and chocolate sauce. They just don’t go together.

  ‘So what’s the idea then?’ asked Stinkwart. ‘What do we want?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we wants,’ said Plugugly slowly, importantly, aware that all eyes were on him. ‘We Wants A Car.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Obsession

  Pongwiffy sat in her rocking chair, practising her guitar. The Witchway Rhythm Boys had done a good job (at a very steep price!). They had replaced the strings and fixed the neck. All the pegs were present and correct. It had been glued and waxed and buffed. Even Hugo had to admit it looked good.

  Pongwiffy loved it with a passion. She carried it everywhere. She slept with it. She even cleaned it. Apart from eating, it was her favourite occupation.

  She had moved on from plinking. Her new method of playing now consisted of sweeping her hand across the open strings, producing a horrible discord that clashed with itself, let alone whatever she happened to be singing.

  Well, singing is a kind term. Pongwiffy’s voice was a sort of tuneless honk that careered off on its own sweet way, regardless of melody, rhythm or anything at all, really.

  The worst of it was, she thought she was good.

  ‘One Witch went to woo,’

  honked Pongwiffy, strumming her discord.

  ‘Went to woo a Wizard,

  One Witch and her Wand

  Went to woo a –

  ‘AND WHERE HAVE THE PAIR OF YOU BEEN, MAY I ASK?’

  Hugo and the Broom were standing in the doorway, attempting to sneak in without being noticed.

  Pongwiffy carefully placed the guitar on the kitchen table, currently strewn with scribbled-on bits of paper (lyrics for her songs), stood up and looked stern. The Broom drooped and made abject little circles on the floor with its bristles. Hugo stood his ground.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Novhere,’ said Hugo shortly.

  Things hadn’t been too good between the three of them recently. Hugo and the Broom were getting very tired of Pongwiffy’s new hobby. Hour after hour, night after night, she sat crooning away, asking what they thought and forcing them to join in the chorus. Her obsession was becoming more than they could bear, which is why they had accepted an invitation from Vernon, Ratsnappy’s rat Familiar, to go round and watch Familiar Fortunes, the new game show everyone was talking about.

  ‘Yes you have. The two of you have been watching spellovision round at Ratsnappy’s, haven’t you? Don’t tell me fibs because I know. I heard Vernon invite you when he thought I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘OK. Is true,’ admitted Hugo, with a shrug. ‘Ve go out to get avay from ze plinkink. Vot else ve supposed to do? I not even got nussink to read since you hide my book.’

  ‘I didn’t hide your book, actually,’ said Pongwiffy.

  This was true. She hadn’t. She had thrown it away. Hurled it far into the rubbish dump when Hugo wasn’t looking.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘anyway, I don’t plink any more! I haven’t plinked for days. That just shows how much interest you take. I’ve been experimenting with my technique and I sort of hit the strings now. I call it thrumming. Like this.’

  She snatched up the guitar and demonstrated.

  Thrummm!

  ‘Plink, thrummm, votever, is horrible,’ said Hugo. ‘You not fun any more. Togezzer, ve used to make good Magic. Now you make bad music. I bored, I go out.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t!’ scolded Pongwiffy. ‘You’re my Familiar. Your job is to help me in all my undertakings. All. That means listen to me practise. Tell me how good I am. Give me support and encouragement in my new career. You!’ She turned to the Broom, which was dithering uncertainly in the background. ‘Get in the cupboard. You’re grounded.’

  ‘Vot new career?’ asked Hugo. A little wrinkle of anxiety crossed his furry brow.

  ‘My new career as a singer-songwriter. I should have done it years ago. My old mum used to say I sang like a lark. Or was it a shark? Do sharks sing? Does it tell you that in your Little Book of Wisdom? Hmm?’

  ‘How I know? You hide it.’

  ‘No I didn’t, I tell you. Although you couldn’t blame me if I had, because, let’s face it, you’ve been neglecting your duties recently. Of course –’ she paused, considering – ‘of course, I won’t need a Familiar any more if I swap Magic for music.’ She stared at Hugo for a long moment, then gave a snort of laughter. ‘Oh, take that daft look off, I’m only kidding. I’ve missed you actually. Put the kettle on and make us both a nice cup of bogwater. I’ll sing you my latest song. It’s about you – listen.

  ‘My Hamster lies over the ocean,

  He left on a silly wee raft,

  Forgetting to take any paddles,

  Which just goes to show that he’s –’

  ‘Votch it,’ warned Hugo. But he grinned a bit. He hopped on to the draining board and began busying himself with kettle and teacups.

  ‘So. What’s it like out in the Wood tonight?’ asked Pongwiffy.

  ‘Quiet. Everysink cancelled due to lack of interest.’

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ observed Pongwiffy grimly. ‘Everybody’s spellovision mad. Obsessed, that’s what they are. Know what obsession is, Hugo? It’s when people can’t stop talking about one thing to the point where they become utterly boring. Now, shut up and listen to this. It’s a song about my cauldron.

  ‘You are my cauldron, my rusty cauldron,

  You cook my dinner, it tastes OK.

  The bits of rust-o I eat with gusto,

  Please don’t take my cauldron away . . .’

/>   Sharkadder was passing by, hurrying to get back to the evening spellovision feast. If Pongwiffy was obsessed with her guitar, Sharkadder was utterly addicted to spellovision. She simply couldn’t drag herself away from it. The only reason she was out now was because her cupboards were bare. She had finally run out of absolutely everything and was forced to go shopping for the first time in ages. She was doing it on her own too. Dudley was laid up with a bad back and her Broom claimed bristle rash, although really they were both perfectly well and just wanted to stay at home and watch Familiar Fortunes.

  So. There was poor Sharkadder, struggling under the weight of four enormous shopping bags, three of which consisted entirely of tins of cat food. The handles were cutting into her fingers. She was wearing brand new spike-heeled boots with pointy toes and her feet were killing her. Every few steps, she had to stop and put everything down. To make it all a thousand times worse, each dwelling she passed had spellovision on.

  Several times she had been tempted to knock and ask if she could come in and watch, but, desperate though she was for spello, she was even more desperate for a cup of bogwater and knew that nobody would offer her one. Hospitality was at an all-time low since the advent of spellovision. Nobody could be bothered to leave the sofa.

  It was during one of her rests that she heard the sound of distant honking coming through the trees.

  ‘Oh, the grand old Witch of Rhodes,

  She had ten thousand toads,

  I said, please will you give me some?

  I notice you have loads.

  That Witch, she said to me,

  “Those toads do not come free,

  Go catch your own, you lazy crone!”

  Fa lala lala lee . . . Come on, you two,

  join in the chorus!

  Oh, fa lala lala leee . . .’

  It was horrible, horrible singing, but it was music to Sharkadder’s ears.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Of course! Pong’ll be pleased to see me.’

  And she limped off in the direction of Number One, Dump Edge.