Witch for a Week

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘There yer go! Bootiful as Shawn’s gran’s vase!’ cried Jed.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed the others. ‘She’s lovely is Sylphine.’

  ‘We wants ’er to be our girlfriend,’ added Short Shawn.

  Elsie looked down at Nuisance, who was waiting for orders.

  ‘Guard the step. Keep them at bay, but no biting.’ Firmly, she closed the door.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Joey, spooning tea into the pot. ‘Somebody out there?’

  ‘The woodcutters are here,’ said Elsie. ‘Bad news. I think they’ve eaten the cake.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Corbett. ‘Complications. That can happen with spells.’

  ‘But it fell on the ground,’ said Sylphine, scraping pie off her plate. ‘It was all dirty, with bits in it.’

  ‘Well, they must have picked it up and eaten it anyway. Now they all really like you and want you to go to supper and eat brown stew with lumps in.’

  ‘Well, they’re out of luck,’ said Sylphine. ‘I don’t want stew. What I really want is more pie. Is there any cream?’

  From outside, there arose a sudden chant.

  ‘Sylphine, Sylphine! Come wiv us an’ be our queen! Sylphine! Sylphine! Come wiv us an’ be our queen!’

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Elsie. ‘They’ll go away.’

  ‘When, though?’ asked Joey.

  ‘I don’t know. When the cake’s out of their system?’

  ‘Could be in for a long wait, then,’ said Joey. ‘Tomorrow morning, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Sylpheeeeen!’ came Ed’s pleading voice. ‘Come an’ get yer luverly flowers wot we picked.’

  Suddenly, a new voice broke in.

  ‘Out of the way, young man, we’re coming through. Sylphine, dear? Are you in there? Ada and I want to invite you to tea!’

  ‘We think of you like a granddaughter, dear!’ chimed in a second voice. ‘Cucumber sandwiches and three sorts of jam! Do come.’

  This was greeted by a hail of furious barking from Nuisance. More enemies! See ’em off! Grrr! Ark!

  In the kitchen, everybody stared at each other.

  ‘Joey,’ said Elsie. ‘When we cleared up, where did you put the rest of the love potion? That was in the bucket?’

  ‘Put it out the back, next to the privy, so it was out of the way,’ said Joey. ‘Why? Oh, you don’t think . . . ?’

  ‘The Howler Sisters have got a thing about buckets,’ said Elsie.

  Outside, Sylphine’s admirers were gearing up for a new onslaught.

  ‘Stew!’ shouted Short Shawn. ‘Made wiv me own ’ands wot I washed day before yesterday!’

  ‘I’ve rit you a pome, Sylphine!’ bellowed Fred. ‘Sylphine, you’re the queen of ’earts, around you we won’t do no f—’

  ‘Sylphine, dear, come home with us and see the lovely shawl we knitted for you!’ Evie begged.

  ‘We want to adopt you, dear!’ Ada trilled.

  Ark! barked Nuisance, beside himself. Ark! Ark! Grrrrr!

  ‘What a racket,’ said Sylphine, poking around in the larder for cream. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Put a stop to it,’ said Elsie firmly. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m all for good Customer Service, but some people just don’t know when it’s closing time. Come on, Corbett. Back me up.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  THREE LITTLE SPELLS

  Corbett on her shoulder, Elsie wrenched open the front door and stepped out.

  Nuisance stopped barking and shuffled over to make room. The woodcutters and the Howlers fell quiet. There was clearly to be some sort of announcement.

  ‘Right,’ said Elsie. ‘Now, listen to me. All this nonsense has to stop. You don’t really love Sylphine at all.’

  ‘We do,’ chorused the besotted woodcutters. ‘Oh, but we do!’

  ‘As for us, we think she’s a delightful young lady,’ said Ada. ‘We adore her, don’t we, Evie?’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Elsie. ‘You steal her shoes and vandalize her garden.’

  ‘Oh, my! As if we would!’ gasped Evie. ‘Hear that, Ada? Such fibs!’

  ‘Listen,’ said Elsie. ‘You’re not yourselves. It’s because of a love potion. It’s your own fault. You either ate cake that wasn’t meant for you or licked leftover pink goo out of a bucket.’

  ‘Sho go away and leave me alone,’ chipped in Sylphine indistinctly, coming up from behind with her mouth full of pie. ‘The potion wash for Hank, and he’sh the only one who didn’t have any. Mmm, thish pie ish lovely.’

  ‘Oooh!’ moaned the watching crowd, awash with love. ‘It’s her!’

  ‘I didn’t have any potion,’ said Joey, sticking his head around the door. ‘It’s got snot in it.’

  Everyone went a bit quiet at that.

  ‘Thank you, Sylphine. Thank you, Joey,’ said Elsie. ‘Everybody clear now? The potion was meant for Hank, not any of you. I’m sure the magic will wear off. Please go quietly home and—’

  ‘Hey?’ Another voice came from the shadows. ‘Someone say my name, yeah?’

  And a tall figure strolled into the glade.

  It was Hank, back from the barber’s with a truly radical haircut.

  Someone – some creative, experimental hair artist, or maybe someone who just didn’t like Hank – had ignored those all-important words: Just a trim, yeah?

  Hank had been given a weird, thick fringe which hung over his eyes. The rest had been cut so short, he was bordering on bald. That same someone had left a silly little dangling pigtail trailing down his neck. It was one of those haircuts that haunt you for ever. It was a haircut that screamed Big Mistake!

  Even Hank wasn’t too sure about his new look. It was certainly different. But was it cool?

  The hairdresser had assured him that it was, but Hank wasn’t convinced. Didn’t it make his neck look too wide? His face too short? Was the pigtail a mistake? When he tried tossing his head, nothing happened. There was no familiar, reassuring swish. The swish had been left behind, along with the pile of shorn yellow locks on the shop floor.

  Nobody had complimented him on his new look. In fact, the other customers had gone very quiet when he stood up to leave. Even the other barbers stopped snipping and stared. Only Hank’s hairdresser seemed truly happy.

  Oh, well. He would just brazen it out. Yeah, right. He was cool enough to carry it off. Wasn’t he?

  ‘Hey,’ said Hank again. ‘What’s up, guys, yeah?’

  The Howler Sisters whispered to each other behind their hands, looking outraged as only little old ladies can when presented with youths with strange and terrible hair.

  Ed, Ted, Ned, Fred, Jed and Short Shawn stared, open-mouthed, too shocked to laugh. That would come later.

  Sylphine went red. Then white. Then a normal colour. She folded her arms, shook her head and said, ‘Oh. What was I thinking? That. Is. Truly. Awful.’

  ‘Ah, Hank,’ said Elsie. ‘I was just telling everyone to go home.’

  ‘We won’t, though!’ shouted Ed, brandishing his bluebells. ‘Not wivout Sylphine. She’s comin’ fer supper!’

  ‘Huh?’ said Hank, startled. ‘Aggie Wiggins? Why’s she coming to supper?’

  ‘Don’t you call ’er that,’ snarled Ted. ‘She don’t like it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ growled Ed, Fred, Ned, Jed and Short Shawn as one. ‘You leave ’er alone.’

  ‘She’s our girlfriend,’ added Ted. ‘Show some respec’ or we’ll duff you up.’

  ‘No need for violence, young man,’ snapped Ada. She raised her parasol and rapped him smartly on the head.

  ‘Not in the presence of a young lady,’ added Evie. ‘Come home with us, Sylphine, dear, this is no place for you!’

  Hank and his alarming hair had been a distraction for a moment, but now Sylphine’s fan club was back on track. Another chant was starting up. Nuisance began barking again.

  ‘Corbett,’ said Elsie. ‘They’re not listening. What shall we do?’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you,’ said Corbett. ‘You’ve got
new skills. Use ’em.’

  ‘Right,’ said Elsie. ‘Eggs first. I know I can do those. Somebody fetch an umbrella.’

  The eggs were a triumph. Elsie thought hard-boiled would have the most impact, and they came hurtling from the sky, bouncing painfully on heads and shoulders, then down to the ground, where they rolled around. In seconds, the forest floor was a sea of white. The Howlers squealed and put up their parasols. Arms over their heads, the woodcutters ran for the shelter of the trees, eggs crunching underfoot.

  Sadly, it was an easy little spell, not designed to last, especially when delivered at maximum strength. So after a short, sharp egg shower, the magic ran out. The air cleared and the eggs on the ground melted away into thin air.

  So did Hank. He’d had enough for one day. Silly hair, mutiny in the woodcutter ranks, everyone developing a mysterious passion for Aggie Wiggins and egg rain. It was time to slink off home and look for a hat.

  ‘Now, will you please go away?’ called Elsie.

  ‘Yeah!’ shouted Corbett. ‘Clear off!’

  But Sylphine’s devoted fans came creeping forward again. It was going to take more than an egging to shift them.

  So Elsie did little green frogs.

  A rain of frogs is worse than boiled eggs. Not so painful, but generally much more unpleasant, judging by the fuss everyone made. They plopped and hopped, those little frogs. They leapt and crawled over feet and down necks, croaking and flexing their cold, slimy, tiny limbs.

  ‘Don’t send ’em back, I’ll have a few when this is over,’ said Corbett.

  But he was out of luck. The spell ran out of steam, the frog rain eased off and they vanished of their own accord just like the eggs had done.

  ‘Now will you go home?’ shouted Elsie.

  Sylphine’s admirers were shaken, but still not inclined to stir. Sylphine herself was on her third slice of pie and was clearly starting to enjoy the attention.

  ‘Right,’ said Elsie. ‘They asked for it. Joey, could I have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Huh? What, now?’

  ‘Now. Only a drop of milk. Six sugars.’

  ‘Whooo-hoo!’ crowed Corbett. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ said Elsie. ‘I know what I’m doing. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’

  Eggs had been bad. Frogs had been worse. But Elsie’s storm in a teacup was a sight to behold!

  Released from the cup, free at last, it expanded! The tiny black cloud became a huge, billowing mass, rising above the treetops, growing up and outward until it filled the sky. The glade darkened. There was a pause. Then a bolt of lightning zapped down, setting a small bush on fire!

  Then came the thunder. A terrible, strident crack, as though the sky was splitting in two.

  ‘Get back!’ shouted Elsie. ‘It’s tea time!’

  Everyone moved back from the doorway. And then—

  Then came the tea. Huge, heavy drops of scalding tea with hardly any space between them. There were hard grains of sugar mixed in, like hailstones. Branches sagged, trees bent and the ground became a churned-up mass of mud.

  Love has its limits, and for Sylphine’s admirers this was it. With one accord, the mob in the glade took to their heels.

  ‘Wow!’ said Joey, as the howls and screams died away. ‘That was good, Elsie.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Corbett. ‘I gotta claw it to you.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ gasped Sylphine. They all stood in the doorway, gazing out at the gently steaming landscape.

  ‘Practice,’ said Elsie.

  True, of course. But as we all know, with magic it helps to have the knack.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HOME

  The following morning, Elsie awoke to the smell of burning!

  Instantly, she was out of bed and running down the stairs.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Magenta, as Elsie burst into the kitchen. ‘I’m just making myself some breakfast.’

  The witch was standing next to the stove, spreading butter on a piece of black toast. She still wore her travelling clothes. Her carpet bag was parked by the door, along with a large straw sunhat, a small cardboard box and a stuffed donkey. ‘Oh!’ gasped Elsie. ‘You gave me a fright. How long have you been back?’

  ‘Long enough to fall out with Corbett. He doesn’t like the donkey I bought him as a gift. Flown off for a sulk. That dog of yours looks a whole lot better. Give him a bath, did you?’

  ‘I did,’ said Elsie.

  ‘So,’ said Magenta, flinging herself into the rocking chair and kicking off her shoes. ‘How did you find being a caretaker? Any problems? I must say everything looks shipshape. Although I see someone set fire to a bush outside. And do I detect a faint smell of tea in the air?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elsie. ‘I, um . . . let loose a storm in a teacup. Yesterday. Bit of an emergency.’

  ‘You handled it, though.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been – sort of dabbling with magic a bit.’

  ‘Uh-huh. How did you get on?’

  ‘Quite well,’ said Elsie. ‘I think I might have the knack.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you might. Put the kettle on and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Elsie. ‘Don’t eat that burnt toast. I’ll make you an omelette. I can do really good things with eggs.’

  It was a long breakfast. There was a lot to tell. Magenta listened with great interest and nods of approval. When Elsie enquired about her holiday with her sister, she said, ‘Don’t ask.’ So Elsie didn’t.

  After breakfast, Elsie packed her things, ready to go home. At Magenta’s insistence, she took the new dresses, the ribbons, the brush and comb home with her. When her basket was full, she took a last look around the blue bedroom. At the wonderful bed, where she had slept for seven blissful, undisturbed nights. At the blue bedspread, which still bore the stains of tea. At the charred mark on the wardrobe. At the one book on the shelf. Three Little Spells for beginners, which in the end had been all she’d had time to read. Magenta had invited her to take the book home, but Elsie declined. Her little brothers would only chew it.

  She was sad to leave. After so much fun and excitement, life in Smallbridge would seem more boring than ever.

  She glanced briefly at the painting of the Emporium on the wall. Then looked again. It had changed. Five little figures were waving from the doorway. The three small ones were holding a home-made welcome home banner.

  Elsie smiled, closed the bedroom door and skipped downstairs.

  ‘All done,’ she said, coming into the kitchen. ‘I’m going home now.’

  ‘Right,’ said Magenta. ‘You’re taking the dog with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elsie. ‘Where’s Corbett? I want to say goodbye.’

  ‘Here,’ said Corbett, poking his head through the window. ‘I’m not speaking to her, though.’ He nodded his beak towards Magenta. ‘She brought me a donkey. What kind of rubbishy gift is that? It’s not even bird related.’

  ‘I know. But don’t be cross. I’m going home now. High claw?’

  Corbett held out his claw and Elsie smacked it with her palm. Then she looked around the kitchen.

  ‘Goodbye, Tower,’ said Elsie. ‘Thanks for all the cake.’

  The tower gave a little shiver.

  ‘Almost forgot! Your wages,’ said Magenta. ‘Twenty-one pieces of gold, right?’ She handed over a large red velvet purse. It bulged in the most satisfying way.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elsie. She pushed it deep into her cloak pocket. ‘Will you say goodbye to Joey and Sylphine? Tell them I’ll miss them.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Magenta. ‘But you’ll be coming back. You’ve made a good start, but there’s a lot more to learn.’

  ‘Of course she’ll be back,’ said Corbett. ‘You will, won’t you, Elsie?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elsie. ‘I rather think I will.’

  ‘Until the next time, then,’ said Magenta. ‘I’ll be in touch. Oh, there’s a box over there for you. By the door. Open it wh
en you get home.’

  Much, much later, back in the attic above Pickles’ Emporium, when all the hugging and kissing and talking and celebration and cries of delight over the purse of gold was over and everyone was asleep, Elsie did.

  Inside was a pair of beautiful new blue shoes.

  Acknowledgements

  The terrific team at Simon and Schuster, especially my lovely editor, Jane. Ashley, my talented illustrator, who has brought Elsie’s world to life. My good friend and fantastic literary agent, Caroline Sheldon. My always supportive husband Mo and daughter Ella. All my loyal readers, young and not so young. All the bookshops and libraries who buy this book. The cats who let me cuddle them whenever I get stuck.

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Text Copyright © 2017 Kaye Umansky

  Cover and interior illustrations Copyright © 2017 Ashley King

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The rights of Kaye Umansky and Ashley King to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work retrospectively has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN: 978-1-4711-6090-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-6091-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.