Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  He aimed a dejected kick at a small pebble lying in his path.

  And that’s when he heard it. A jolly little sound, coming from somewhere off in the distance.

  ‘Woof!’

  Plugugly stopped. Had he imagined it?

  ‘Woof! Woof!’ No. It was coming closer. Could it be?

  He rounded a clump of prickly bushes – and suddenly his arms were full of wagging, wiggling bones!

  ‘Doggy!’ cried Plugugly, drowning in happiness and slobber. ‘My little doggy!’

  ‘Faster!’ instructed Sheridan Haggard. ‘Faster, faster! Put your foot down!’

  ‘I am,’ said the Thing, screeching around a corner on two wheels. ‘It’s a bendy road, boss. Calm down, why don’tcha?’

  ‘Calm down?’ boomed Sheridan, all righteous indignation. ‘A pack of Goblins have stolen my beloved pet and you’re telling me to calm down?’

  ‘You don’t know they stole him, though, do you? You didn’t see ’em actually do it.’

  ‘Of course they did it! They were messing around with the limo again. I saw them!’

  ‘Yeah, but the doors were locked. I know ’cos I did it myself. Ribs must have opened it himself, from the inside.’

  ‘He’s a dog, Thing, not a locksmith or a trained octopus! No, it’s quite clear what happened. Those wretched Goblins managed to force the door open and they’ve stolen him for his lovely jewelled collar. Oh, Ribsy, my poor little Ribsy! Why did I leave you?’

  Sheridan began to sob. Large tears trickled down his smooth cheekbones. (This may surprise you. But then, Ribs can slobber and both of them can eat and drink. Skeletons have their own mysterious ways of doing things, and that’s that.)

  ‘Hold tight, boss!’ advised the Thing, crashing the gears and narrowly avoiding a rock. ‘We’re going up the mountain. Lot o’ potholes. One coming up right n—’

  As it spoke, there came the unmistakable sound of a skull crashing into a hard roof, followed by a very rude, un-newsreader-like word.

  ‘Oops,’ said the Thing. ‘See what I mean?’

  Up in the cave, it suddenly dawned on the Goblins that Plugugly was missing.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ asked Hog.

  ‘Who cares?’ sniffed Lardo. He was down in the dumps because he still hadn’t found his hat. The others shrugged their shoulders and looked blank.

  ‘When did we see him last?’ pondered Hog. ‘Anyone remember?’

  ‘ ’E was makin’ that speech,’ said Stinkwart. ‘About bein’ serious about sumfin’. ’E sounded a bit fed up. I didn’t take it seriously, though.’

  ‘He’s fed up?’ sulked Lardo. ‘Huh. At least he ain’t lost ’is hat.’

  ‘Fink we should go and look for ’im?’ (Hog)

  ‘Why?’ (Sproggit)

  ‘I dunno. We’re s’posed to be makin’ the car, right? It was his idea. Why should we do all the work while he slopes off?’

  ‘Oh. Right!’

  So the six of them set off to look for Plugugly. Slipping and sliding down the muddy slope, they were soon swallowed up by shadows.

  No sooner had they vanished than two headlights stabbed the darkness and Sheridan’s sleek limousine came purring up the track, coming to a halt directly outside the Goblins’ cave.

  The driver’s door shot open and the Thing scrambled out, pausing only to dispose of its chauffeur hat and don a pair of minder-type dark glasses to make itself look tough before racing round to open the passenger door at the back. After a brief pause, Sheridan emerged. He unfolded his bony frame with a series of little clicks and pops, then stared around grimly in the fading light, taking in the depressing surroundings.

  ‘Ribs?’ he shouted. ‘Are you there, boy?’

  Silence. Without another word, Sheridan stalked towards the cave with the Thing hurrying at his heels.

  Rather to their surprise, the front boulder was rolled to one side. Beyond lay total darkness. Sheridan bent down and squinted in.

  ‘Hello there!’ he called, his golden-brown voice bouncing off the walls. ‘Anybody in?’

  Silence.

  ‘There’s no point in hiding, you know,’ boomed Sheridan threateningly. ‘I know you’re in there. Send out the dog, then come out yourselves with your hands up. I’m making a Skeleton’s arrest. I shall count to three.’

  More silence.

  ‘One – two – three! That’s it, I’m coming in!’

  ‘Hang on, boss. Could be a trap,’ advised the Thing, in its role as bodyguard.

  ‘Oh. Do you really think so?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘In that case, you go first.’

  ‘Right,’ said the Thing stoutly. ‘Here I go. Stay right there.’

  And it marched into the cave.

  ‘What can you see?’ called Sheridan.

  ‘Nothing,’ shouted the Thing. ‘I’m feeling my way round the edges.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think there’s anyone at home.’

  ‘In that case, I’m coming in. Wow! It’s very dark. I can’t see a thing . . .’

  A cave in total darkness is hazardous enough, what with low bits of ceiling to bang your head on and half-buried rocks to trip over. It is made doubly dangerous when it contains a huge, tottering, precariously balanced mountain of rubbish.

  As you might expect, Sheridan walked slap bang into it!

  If you had been standing outside, you would have heard a startled cry – then a rumbling, slithering effect, followed by dramatic crashing and tinkling noises as the huge edifice came tumbling down.

  Then silence.

  ‘An’ dat’s when I found de Lucky Wishin’ Pebble,’ gabbled Plugugly happily as the Gaggle hurried back up the slope with Ribs racing around their ankles. ‘Just as I was rememberin’ about de little dog and wishin’ he was mine. An’ I kicked it, just like dat, an’ den suddenly, dere ’e was! De little dog, wot I love. Just as I was feelin’ sad about de car an’ wishin’ sumfin’ good would happen. An’ den I kicked it again an’ wished I’ ad someone to tell about it an’ you lot shows up! Den I kicked it again!’

  ‘An’ what happened?’

  ‘Well – nuffin’. But at least I got a doggy.’

  ‘I wants to borrow the Lucky Wishin’ Pebble,’ whined Lardo. ‘I wants me hat back.’

  ‘I fink it only works for me,’ Plugugly told him sadly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What we gonna call the doggy?’ asked Slopbucket. ‘Needs a name, don’t ’e? What’s a good name fer a dog?’

  ‘Puss?’ suggested Hog.

  ‘Fluffy?’ (That was Stinkwart’s offering.)

  ‘Mr Stuart Prichard?’ (Sproggit, being particularly weird.)

  ‘Who?’ said everybody, staring at him.

  ‘Mr Stuart Prichard. That’s the name of my gran’s dentist.’

  ‘Well, it’s not a good name for a little doggy,’ said Plugugly firmly. ‘If you fink I’s gonna call my little doggy Mr Stuart Prichard, you is mad. No, I know what I is gonna call him. I is gonna call him Fang de Wonder Hound. I is gonna teach him tricks an’ everyfin’. Now, if only we had a car, everyfin’ would be jus’ perfect – hold it!’

  He came to a sudden stop. Everyone piled up behind, like dominoes. Fang the Wonder Hound stopped racing around like a mad thing and came to sit at Plugugly’s feet, panting up lovingly into his face. For once, Plugugly didn’t notice. Something had caught his attention.

  ‘Look!’ he gasped, pointing with a trembling hand. ‘De Lucky Pebble did work anudder time after all!’

  Sure enough, there, outside the cave, stood the car of their dreams. Fang the Wonder Hound recognised it immediately, and proceeded to bite the tyres.

  ‘It’s exackly like the uvver one!’ marvelled Hog. ‘The one that Skellington’s got. Same colour, everyfin’! That’s some Pebble you got there, Plug.’

  ‘I know,’ said Plugugly proudly. He fingered the wonderful stone deep in his pocket, reached down and gave his new pet a fierce, loving hug.
For once, all his dreams were coming true.

  Hardly daring to believe their own eyes, the Goblins crept forward and ran their hands over the limousine’s gleaming surface. Experimentally, Eyesore pressed the handle on the driver’s door. Instantly, it swung open, revealing a rich, leather interior and a set of keys hanging from the ignition.

  ‘It’s open!’ breathed Hog.

  ‘So what are we waitin’ for?’ squealed Sproggit, wild with excitement. ‘Let’s go for a drive! Let’s go to Sludgehaven-on-Sea! Right now!’

  There was a sudden silence.

  ‘Can we drive?’ asked Eyesore doubtfully.

  ‘No,’ came the chorus.

  ‘Do we care?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then let’s go!’

  Overcome with emotion, young Sproggit threw his hat in the air, sank to his knees in the dirt and hugged the fender.

  ‘Best push the boulder over,’ said Slopbucket. ‘Don’t wanna come ’ome an’ find we bin robbed.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hog. ‘They might nick our stuff.’

  ‘We ain’t got any stuff,’ observed Lardo. ‘Except our huntin’ bags. And they got holes in.’

  ‘What about the Car Stuff?’ Eyesore said.

  ‘We don’t need that now we got a proper car, though, do we?’ said Stinkwart.

  ‘Eyesore is right,’ said Plugugly. ‘We doesn’t want people snoopin’ about. Supposin’ someone tells Pongwiffy? We’ll be for it. Or what if a bear comes along lookin’ for somewhere to move in?’

  Everyone agreed that it made sense to roll the boulder back in place. Nobody thought to check inside first, of course. That’s Goblins for you.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Robbed!

  I don’t believe it!’ wailed Pongwiffy. ‘I’ve been robbed!’

  She was standing, looking out over the rubbish dump with Sharkadder. It was a bright, sunny morning – the first morning she had seen for some time. Nights had been taken up with rehearsals and the days spent catching up with eating, sleeping and shouting at Hugo.

  ‘It’s a bit depleted, I’ll give you that,’ agreed Sharkadder.

  ‘Depleted? It’s a shadow of its former self! Stripped bare of all the choice bits! The bath, the mangle, the shopping trolley – gone, all gone!’

  ‘We’re talking about a rubbish dump here, Pong,’ remarked Sharkadder. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting quite so worked up.’

  ‘Because it’s my rubbish dump. Mine. I’ve been so busy lately I just haven’t thought to check on it. And somebody’s been here helping themselves while my back’s been turned. Who, I wonder? Who’d be stupid enough to tangle with me?’

  ‘Actually, I think I can help you there,’ said Sharkadder. She stooped down and poked a long green talon at something lying by her boot. ‘Look. A clue.’ Gingerly, she picked up the grubby item and held it out. ‘A Goblin hat, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

  ‘Typical!’ raged Pongwiffy. ‘Sneaky little tea leaves! How dare they! Well, they’ll be sorry. Just wait till I get my hands on them. In fact, I’ll do it right now, while the mood’s on me. I’ll just go and get my Wand. Coming?’

  ‘No,’ said Sharkadder, ‘and neither are you. Now is not the time, Pong. We’ve got to focus on the Contest. Just think – tomorrow night! Only thirty-six hours to go. And I haven’t even started putting my make-up on.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Pongwiffy, startled. ‘Is it? Is it really tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it terrifying? In a sort of deliciously exciting way? I simply can’t wait to see myself on spello. I can’t decide what to wear. Lilac or puce? Shoes or boots? Hat or no hat? Whenever I think of it, I come over all of a flutter. I just know our song will win, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure to,’ agreed Pongwiffy, adding, ‘although I’ve got a feeling the Familiars’ll be strong contenders. Hugo’s very competitive. And they say the Banshees are good. And then there are the Wizards. You know how they like to get one over on us . . .’

  ‘Oh, stop being doomy!’ cried Sharkadder gaily. ‘Have faith! Of course we’ll win, with our brilliant song.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Pongwiffy, cheering up. ‘It is a good song, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s perfect. We’ll win, and then we’ll get presented with the cup and I’ll be on spello and get to meet Sheridan Haggard and we’ll get a lovely holiday and – oh, I’m so excited I could burst! I do think a Spellovision Song Contest is one of your best ever ideas, Pong, I really do! Come on – let’s go and practise!’

  ‘All right,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘But those Goblins are really for it when I catch up with them.’

  Ali Pali sat in his office with his feet on his desk, studying the latest viewing figures. There was good news and bad news.

  The bad news was that the viewing public was getting fussier by the hour. No longer could people be palmed off with a load of Gnomes. In fact, Gnomes were currently out of favour. Anything featuring Gnomes caused people to switch off in droves. People didn’t seem to be interested in Fiends much, either, or in celebrity Dwarf chefs, or in instructive documentaries about embalming.

  The only programme that continued to enjoy undiminished popularity was The News. People always tuned in for that. It had become even more popular since the announcement about the forthcoming Spellovision Song Contest. Every news bulletin ended with Sheridan reading out the latest entrants.

  The Spellovision Song Contest. Here, at last, was good news. Oh yes. Very good news indeed.

  These days, the talk was of nothing else. In cottages, caves and castles, the excited contestants would switch on The News, then sit on the edge of their seats in great excitement, waiting for their own name to be read out in Sheridan’s rich, honeyed tones. When it came, they would go pink and either nudge their fellow watchers or hug themselves, if they were alone.

  Pongwiffy’s Hamster had been right. A Spellovision Song Contest was a magnificent idea. It held universal appeal. Spellovisions were selling like hot cakes. Desperate advertisers were sending bundles of used notes through the post in the hope of bribing Ali Pali to show their advertisement at peak time, when the whole world would be watching.

  Ali hoped he was going to make a lot of money.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Trapped!

  Sheridan Haggard sat on the rotten garden bench, skull in hands, attempting to recover from his ordeal. It had taken ages for the Thing to dig him out from beneath the avalanche of rubbish. He still felt shaky.

  ‘Feelin’ better now, boss?’ enquired the Thing. It was of a practical disposition, was the Thing, and possessed of exceptional energy, which is why it made such a good Everything Else Boy. It also possessed a useful box of matches. As well as extracting both itself and Sheridan from the sea of junk, it had located a couple of candle stubs stuck in niches in the walls, so at least they were no longer in darkness. It was now scuttling about tidying up – a thankless task owing to the sheer volume of rubbish, but, then again, the Thing specialised in thankless tasks.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ groaned Sheridan. ‘I’m covered in filth, my skull aches and I’m suffering from shock. Quick! Champagne! Failing that, mineral water.’

  ‘No water here, boss,’ said the Thing cheerfully. ‘I’ve checked. No grub either.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Sheridan, attempting to rise in a wobbly way, then sitting back down again, ‘I shall leave immediately. Assist me to my feet and help me outside. I require fresh air.’

  ‘Can’t be done, boss,’ said the Thing. It pointed to the heavy boulder that blocked the opening. ‘See? Someone’s stuck the stone back. We can’t get out. You’d need a lot o’ muscle power to shift that baby.’

  Whistling cheerily, it waded around in the sea of rubbish, collecting up armfuls of miscellaneous tat, totally unfazed by their grim situation.

  ‘Are you telling me,’ began Sheridan, voice trembling with indignation, ‘are you seriously telling me that we are stuck here? Without food and drink? In a Goblin ca
ve that for some mysterious reason contains the world’s biggest scrap heap, which has recently collapsed on my head?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But – this is preposterous! How did that boulder get there?’

  ‘Someone pushed it, I s’pose,’ said the Thing with a shrug.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Didn’t see, did I? I was pulling you out from under the junk at the time. But whoever did it took the limo. I heard it leave.’

  ‘The limo?’ Sheridan, white already, went even whiter with shock. ‘They’ve taken my limo?’

  ‘ ’Fraid so.’

  ‘Well, I’m not having it!’ announced Sheridan. He rose to his feet, swayed a bit, then tottered over to the cave mouth. He set his shoulder bone to the boulder and pushed with all his might. His slight weight made no impression whatsoever.

  ‘Give up, boss,’ said the Thing. ‘You’re too flimsy. You’ll do yourself an injury.’

  Sheridan strained ineffectually for another few seconds, then gave in. Gasping, he staggered back to the bench, buried his skull in his hands again and groaned with despair.

  ‘Cheer up,’ advised the Thing. ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘How?’ moaned Sheridan in hollow tones.

  ‘Well, at least we got matches an’ there’s plenty o’ chair legs an’ that. We can light a fire if we get cold.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Sheridan, heavily sarcastic. ‘That’s a good idea. Let’s start a big fire in a cave we can’t get out of. Oh, what fun, do let’s.’

  ‘All right,’ said the Thing a bit sniffily. ‘No need to be sarky.’

  ‘There is every need!’ shouted Sheridan. His golden voice had acquired a tinny, not-so-golden edge. ‘Don’t you realise how serious this is? I am the newsreader! In less than one hour I am meant to be at my desk reading the midnight bulletin! Not trapped in a stinking Goblin cave drowning in tin trays and old prams, watching you tidy up like some kind of demented Cinderella!’