by Kaye Umansky
‘But she’s not coming, Sourmuddle! Don’t you see?’ shrieked Sharkadder. ‘Even though you made a special point of telling her, she’s not coming! She’s afraid to face the music.’
‘What music?’ said a voice from the wings. ‘Sorry I’m late, Sourmuddle. Couldn’t get my Broomstick started. It’s the damp. Poor thing’s got a terrible cough. Keep meaning to get it seen to, but you know how it is. Evening, girls. Have I missed much?’
Cheerfully, Pongwiffy approached the table and plonked herself down in the one empty chair. Hugo rode on the brim of her hat. He winked cheekily down at Dudley, who flicked his tail and looked the other way. Barry gave him a long, hurt, sorrowful look, then pointedly turned his back.
‘So,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘What’s all this about facing music? I’ll face anything but Ag and Bag playing violins. I had enough of that earlier. Did you enjoy the rock cakes, you two? Sorry I had to leave a bit smartish. I just remembered something I had to do.’
‘That’s enough of the chit-chat, Pongwiffy,’ said Sourmuddle severely. ‘I’m just about to start this Meeting, if you don’t mind.’
‘Certainly, Sourmuddle, certainly. I’m sure I don’t want to hold things up longer than necessary. I’m as keen to get away early as the next Witch. By the way, what’s it all about? What’s so important that it can’t wait? Some of us have got things to do.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Sourmuddle tartly. ‘In fact, Pongwiffy, rumour has it that you’ve been doing rather too much lately. That’s why we’re holding this Emergency Meeting. I’ve been getting complaints. About you. In fact, I’ve got a whole list of charges against you.’
‘No!’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘Me? Surely not!’
‘Don’t put on an act, Pong. You know you’re collecting the ingredients for a secret spell!’ shrieked Sharkadder, pointing an accusatory talon. ‘We’re not that stupid, are we, Scrofula?’
‘We certainly are not,’ agreed Scrofula, shaking her head vigorously and causing another avalanche to cascade on to her shoulders.
‘You stole my Dudley’s whisker, you did, Pongwiffy, and I’m going to get you for it!’ screeched Sharkadder. Pongwiffy tried her best to look innocent. No one was taken in.
‘Sit down, Sharkadder, before Macabre throws you out!’ commanded Sourmuddle, putting on her reading glasses and holding at arm’s length an old envelope covered in scribbled notes. ‘Do you deny, Pongwiffy, that in the past few days you’ve stolen or arranged to have stolen a whisker belonging to one Dead Eye Dudley, misappropriated a feather belonging to one Barry Vulture, and kidnapped that awful Princess Honeydimple against her will and hacked her hair off?’
‘I categorically deny everything,’ said Pongwiffy, and immediately came out in those pesky green spots. It really was most inconvenient.
‘You see? You see? Look at her fib rash!’ squawked Sharkadder. ‘She is working on a secret spell, Sourmuddle, I know it! She’s taking advantage of everyone being so busy doing spring-cleaning that we won’t notice!’
‘Aye!’ chipped in Macabre. ‘Why else would she want quicksand? I mean, nobody uses quicksand any more, do they? Quicksand’s old-fashioned. Only very old spells call for quicksand.’
That was the signal for everyone else to join in.
‘All those peculiar things she wanted in Malpractiss Magic, I mean it stands to reason . . .’
‘Skulking around all hours of the day and night, avoiding everybody . . .’
‘And what about my Barry’s feather? Don’t forget that . . .’
‘Yes, and do you know, I’ve seen her . . .’
‘Obviously hiding something . . .’
‘Attacking us with rock cakes and vanishing in a puff of smoke . . .’
Pongwiffy listened to it all with growing alarm. It seemed that everyone had a complaint against her. Nobody was on her side. Even Greymatter’s poem was about her and was distinctly unflattering. It went like this:
Uplift thee, muse! And tell how old Pongwiffy
(A Witch who has a smell distinctly iffy)
Has taken things that were not hers to take:
A feather, hair, a whisker and some cake.
‘I didn’t take any cake!’ protested Pongwiffy, but nobody heard her except Greymatter, who mumbled something about poetic licence. It seemed that everybody was trying to outdo everyone else in telling stories about her which would get her into trouble. The general feeling was definitely anti-Pong.
‘Order! Order! That’s enough,’ commanded Sourmuddle. ‘Deny it all you like, Pongwiffy, but in my opinion there’s an airtight case against you. It’s clear as crystal balls that you’re working on a secret spell.’
‘All right,’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘All right, so I am! I admit it! But so what? We’re Witches, aren’t we? We’re supposed to be working on spells, remember? Not polishing the silver and washing-up! Spring-cleaning’s for sissies!’
There was a lot of angry muttering. Some of the loudest came from the brim of her hat. Even Hugo wasn’t with her on this one.
‘Ah,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Spells, yes. But secret spells? Not without clearing it with me first.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s in the Rule Book. Paragraph nine, item fourteen: No Pinching Items From Fellow Witches Or Their Familiars To Use In Spells Unless Given Express Permission By Grandwitch. And I certainly don’t recall giving you permission. What is it, anyway? What does it do, this spell of yours? Where did you get it from?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘Oh really? Well, in that case, I’m going to ban you. Hand over your Magic Licence, Pongwiffy.’
‘But . . .’
‘No more buts. Hand it over. That’s an order.’
There was quite a bit of unsympathetic tittering as Pongwiffy reached into her rags and drew out an old, crumpled, yellowing piece of paper. With a sulky sniff she handed it to Sourmuddle, who examined it through her reading glasses.
‘Hmm. As I thought. Two endorsements already. Right, I’m adding a third. That means you’re banned from making magic of any kind, secret or otherwise, for one whole week!’
‘But, Sourmuddle . . .’ protested Pongwiffy.
‘Not only that,’ continued Sourmuddle sternly, ‘you will also go and say you are humbly sorry to everyone you’ve offended. You will write a grovelling note to King Futtout apologising for kidnapping that ghastly daughter of his. Plus you will come and clean my boots every morning for the next six weeks. That’ll teach you to not clear things with me first. Right, that’s settled. Meeting over. Whoopee! Sandwich time! Who wants to see my Bat on Elastic?’
Everyone did except Pongwiffy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ronald
Sharkadder’s nephew Ronald was feeling delighted with himself. Feeling delighted with himself was not a new sensation. Ronald was the sort of person who usually felt delighted with himself. However, right now he felt particularly delighted, and the reason for this was that he had just been hired by the palace! His first proper job.
Imagine! A Royal Wizard already, and he’d only just qualified. Ten bags of gold a year, two weeks paid holiday, expense account, turret of his own, as much as he could eat and drink and the possibility of the Princess’s hand in marriage! And all he had to do in return was to do something about the Witches in Witchway Wood. Apparently, they had been getting above themselves recently, and the King (Futtout II) was anxious that they should be made to toe the line.
Do something about the Witches? Nothing to it! Why, his own aunt was one! He’d simply have a word with Aunt Sharky, get her to speak severely to some of her more boisterous cronies and Bob’s your uncle – or, rather, Sharky’s your aunt, ha ha – he’d got it made! What could be easier?
The interview with King Futtout had gone without a hitch. It had been more a case of Ronald interviewing the King than the King interviewing Ronald.
‘Are you . . . erm . . . sure you’ve g
ot enough experience, Mister . . . erm . . . ?’ King Futtout had quavered, fixing him with anxious, wet spaniel eyes. Futtout was small and thin and droopy and ineffectual. He didn’t really speak, he just apologised. He was the sort of person who says, ‘Awfully sorry’ to you when you stand on his foot.
‘Absolutely!’ Ronald had replied grandly. He had just caught sight of his reflection in the throne room mirror. He knew he looked good. He was wearing the eye-catching, traditional red and purple tall pointy Hat of Knowledge and the matching ceremonial Robe of Mystery. His Mystic Staff was in his hand, and thrown casually over his shoulders was his Cloak of Darkness, the one with the star-spangled dark blue lining which he’d paid an arm and a leg for.
His face had recently been trying very hard to grow a beard, and he was almost sure he could see the beginnings of a wisp on his chin. Best of all, much to his relief, his spots had responded well to the evil-smelling spot cream Aunt Sharkadder had sent him in the post.
Yes. He looked good all right.
Looking so good made him even more confident than usual (which was very confident indeed).
‘No probs, honestly. Do something about the Witches, you say? Nothing to it. I’m an expert with Witches. Hey, listen, when we Wizards snap our fingers, those Witches jump, right? I’m your man. Bank on it. Absolutely.’
‘It’s just . . . erm . . . experience . . . bit young, perhaps . . . you know . . . ? Confess I haven’t actually heard of Mighty Ronald the Magnificent . . . erm?’ worried King Futtout.
‘I’ve just qualified,’ explained Ronald. ‘I got honours. Don’t worry, I’m up to the job. I’m a member of the Wizards’ Club, they all know me up there. You want to see my certificate?’
‘Oh no, no, that won’t be necessary . . . erm . . . I’ll just have to clear things with Beryl, my . . . erm . . . wife,’ King Futtout apologised. ‘The Queen, that is. You know how it is? I’ve never appointed a Wizard before . . . not sure what to look for . . .erm . . . ha ha . . . erm . . . ?’
‘Sure, sure. Absolutely. Fine by me. Go right ahead. Wheel her in.’
‘And my daughter?’ begged King Futtout, wringing his hands. ‘You don’t mind if I just . . . erm . . . have a quick word . . . erm . . . with Honeydimple? She expects to be . . . erm. Consulted. Erm . . . mind of her own, you know how it is with these girls nowadays, ha ha . . . erm . . . ?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Ronald graciously. ‘I wouldn’t mind a quick look at her anyway. If I’m having her hand in marriage.’
King Futtout looked unhappy, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and gently rang a little bell which sat on his desk. After a painfully long pause, a footman sauntered in with his hands in his pockets. The King apologised for bothering him and asked if he could possibly beg the Queen and Princess Honeydimple to spare a moment if it wasn’t too much trouble.
The footman wandered away, and Ronald and the King stared at each other and tried to think of something to break the embarrassing silence.
‘So. These witches,’ Ronald said. ‘Been giving you a spot of trouble, have they?’
‘They most certainly have,’ confessed King Futtout with a little shiver. ‘Just my luck the palace backs on to Witchway Wood. That’s where they all live, you know. I wish they didn’t. I’m terrified of them. As a matter of fact, I’m getting quite desperate. Hiring a Wizard was all I could think of. This latest nasty business with Honeydimple . . . most upsetting . . .’
‘Quite, quite, absolutely, tut tut,’ sympathised Ronald. He refrained from mentioning that his aunt was a Witch. Having a Witch in the family wasn’t something you boasted about. Especially if you were a Wizard. Wizards always looked down on Witches. It was traditional.
‘You see, stealing from the herb garden I can take,’ King Futtout was saying. ‘I don’t even make a fuss when they buzz the turrets with their Broomsticks at night. I put up with the sound of their cackling and the awful smells drifting over from their brews – and you should try being here when the wind’s in the east! And as for that rubbish dump . . .’
Ronald gave a solemn nod. He too had smelt Pongwiffy’s tip.
‘I’ve said nothing about what their Bats have done to the coach paintwork and what their Cats have done to the lawn,’ continued King Futtout, on the verge of tears. ‘I even turn a blind eye when that Haggis creature with the orange fringe comes and practises backstroke in the royal swimming pool. But kidnapping the Princess and setting a Hamster on her is quite another matter, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Ronald. ‘Absolutely. Definitely out of order. Er – did you say Hamster?’
‘Yes. Small, golden Hamster with a stupid accent. Cut her hair off and bit her ankles. A shocking bully she said it was.’
There was a long pause.
‘Oh, all right, I know it sounds unlikely,’ said King Futtout. ‘Honeydimple exaggerating again, I suppose. I wouldn’t make a fuss myself, of course, but the wife . . . Queen Beryl, that is . . . Look, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention the . . . erm . . . the, you know, hand in marriage business? To Honeydimple? Not at this stage, you . . . erm . . . you understand?’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Ronald. ‘Right. Absolutely.’
‘They’re making me write an official letter of complaint,’ confessed King Futtout worriedly. ‘Beryl and Honeydimple, that is. They want me to send it to the erm . . . Coven leader.’
‘Grandwitch,’ Ronald told him. ‘She’s called the Grandwitch.’
‘Oh . . . erm? Frankly . . . erm . . . I’m a bit nervous.’
‘May I see?’ asked Ronald. ‘Glance over it? Professional eye, so to speak?’
‘Oh, erm, erm, of course!’ cried King Futtout, scrabbling in his desk and coming up with an old envelope which he thrust gratefully into Ronald’s hand.
‘Is it too . . . erm . . . strong, do you think?’ he asked, anxiously searching Ronald’s face as he read it. ‘I mean, they are Witches. I don’t want to, you know. Erm. Upset them.’
‘Not strong enough,’ said Ronald, shaking his head. ‘Not strong enough by half. You need to be firm with Witches. Where you say you’re “a bit annoyed”, I mean, it hardly sounds as though you’re putting your foot down, does it?’
‘Erm,’ said King Futtout woefully. ‘Erm . . . no, I suppose it doesn’t.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Ronald reassured him. ‘Leave it all to me. I can deal with Witches all right.’
‘Nothing would make me happier than leaving it all to you,’ admitted King Futtout longingly. ‘I just hope Beryl and Honeydimple agree. I wonder where they can be?’
It transpired that Queen Beryl was visiting her mother, and had been there for the past week. Nobody had bothered to inform the King. So Ronald was spared the experience of being interviewed by her. (Just as well. Queen Beryl was a very different kettle of fish.)
Honeydimple turned up an embarrassing two hours later.
‘Hello . . . erm . . . darling, sorry to bother you,’ said King Futtout when she flounced into the room. ‘Come and give Daddy a kiss. This is the Mighty Ronald the Erm.’
‘Who?’ snarled Honeydimple. She was wearing a grubby dressing gown, a large straw hat (to disguise the fact that she had a huge hank of hair missing) and a petulant expression. She didn’t even bother to bat her eyelashes. It was clear that she was far from over her distressing experience.
‘Magnificent,’ Ronald told her firmly. ‘Ronald the Magnificent.’
She wasn’t what he expected at all. For a start, she was years too young for him. Just a kid. And even when she grew up, he didn’t think he could take that hat. Or that pout.
‘Ronald’s going to be our new Wizard,’ explained King Futtout anxiously. ‘Daddy’s thinking of hiring him. I’ve told him all about your . . . erm . . . you know . . . Dreadful Experience. He says he can handle Witches. With him at the . . . erm . . . helm, we should have no more trouble. Right, Ronald?’
‘Absolutely no probs,’ agreed Ronald airily.
&nb
sp; ‘There you are, you see, sweetheart. So. What d’you . . . erm . . . think of him?’
‘Yeuk,’ said Honeydimple, wrinkling her nose. ‘He’th got thpotth. Yeuk.’ It was at that point that Ronald decided he wasn’t the marrying kind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tea at Sharky’s
‘It’s awfully nice of you to invite me and Hugo to tea, Sharky,’ said Pongwiffy, surreptitiously poking her finger into the trifle. Sharkadder was too busy running to and fro between the larder, the mirror and the overflowing table to notice. ‘After everything we’ve done. The whisker and that. We’re most grateful. Aren’t we, Hugo?’
‘Hmm? Oh, ya,’ agreed Hugo vaguely, his eyes on a bowl of bright green frog jelly sprinkled with ants’ eggs in the form of an artistic R (for Ronald).
‘Oh, that’s all right, Pong,’ said Sharkadder, trying to find room for a fungus sponge. ‘You’ve suffered enough. I forgive you. Dudley hasn’t, but I’m sure he’ll come round.’
They all glanced at Dudley’s basket. Right now, it was empty of Dudley, who had stormed out in disgust the minute he had heard that Pongwiffy and Hugo had been invited to Sunday tea after all. In fact, there had been quite a row about it. It had gone something like this:
DUDLEY: (shocked disbelief) Tea? After pinchin’ my whisker, you’ve gone and invited ’em ter tea?
SHARKADDER: (uncomfortably) Yes, yes, don’t go on about it.
DUDLEY: (still incredulous) Today? Tea today? With Ronald coming?
SHARKADDER: (irritably) Well, what was I supposed to do? I mean, she said she was sorry, you saw her, and she got down on all fours and blubbed on my knees! I had to think of my stockings. Besides, she is my best friend. I think we should show a little forgiveness to our best friends. After making them suffer terribly first, of course. That goes without saying.
DUDLEY: Forgiveness? But us be in the Witch business! Whatever ’appened to Vengeance?
SHARKADDER: We’ve had quite enough Vengeance, Dudley. Actually, I don’t mind admitting it, I feel quite sorry for her. Just think. Banned, Dudley. Another endorsement on her licence and banned from making Magic for a whole week! I’ve invited her to tea to cheer her up and, quite frankly, I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about. It’s not as if it was your only whisker. I mean, you’ve got plenty more.