by Kaye Umansky
DUDLEY: (leaving in outrage) That does it. I’m off.
The row had happened hours ago, and Sharkadder hadn’t seen him since. It was now nearly tea time. Pongwiffy had arrived early as usual (in the middle of lunch, actually) and was sitting at the table snaffling food as Sharkadder bustled to and fro with trifles and tarts and dainty little sandwiches with the crusts cut off and jugs of yellow custard and a big cake with WELCOME RONALD picked out in green icing.
‘What time is Ronald coming?’ Pongwiffy asked innocently, scooping a jam tart into her mouth.
‘Any time now.’
‘Oh good,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘And how are his spots these days?’
Sharkadder stopped with a plateful of bat biscuits and gave her a warning look.
‘That’s quite enough of that,’ she scolded. ‘You be polite to Ronald, do you hear? He’s a real Wizard now; he’s passed his exams. He’s going places, and I won’t have him mocked.’
Just at that moment, there came three loud, important-sounding knocks at the door. They weren’t the sort of knocks to ignore. They were knocks of substance. Stern, Open-Up-I-Haven’t-Got-All-Day sort of knocks. The knocks of a Wizard who had passed his exams and expected to go places.
‘That’ll be him now!’ cried Sharkadder, spinning round in a tizzy. ‘Oh dear! He’s early! Is my hair all right? Is my nose shiny? Go and answer the door, Pong, while I put on more lipstick. Don’t you dare let him in until I say so.’
She snatched off her apron, raced to her dressing table, and disappeared in a cloud of powder while Pongwiffy went to answer the door.
Outside stood Ronald in all his glory. Hat of Knowledge, Robe of Mystery, Mystic Staff, Cloak of Darkness, the lot. In fact, he looked exactly the same as he did when we last saw him, except that his spots were worse. ( This usually happened with Sharkadder’s beauty preparations, which were very hit and miss.)
‘Oh,’ said Ronald heavily. ‘It’s you, Pongwiffy. I didn’t know you were invited.’
‘Well, I am, so there,’ said Pongwiffy with satisfaction. ‘Spotty,’ she added in an undertone. She and Ronald had never liked each other.
‘Come in, Ronald, come in!’ trilled Sharkadder from inside. ‘Whatever are you thinking of, Pong, keeping Ronald waiting on the doorstep!’
‘You might as well give me your cloak, then,’ said Pongwiffy, deceptively casual. ‘I’ll hang it up for you.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Ronald, pushing past. ‘It’s new. I don’t want you touching it.’
‘You’ll be hot,’ Pongwiffy warned him. ‘It’s really boiling in there. She’s been cooking all afternoon – it’s like an oven. You’ll be much more comfortable with your cloak off.’
‘Since when did you care for my comfort?’ asked Ronald suspiciously. ‘Anyway, a Wizard and his Cloak of Darkness are Never Parted. Except behind the secret portals of the Wizards’ Clubhouse. And when we’re in bed. I thought you would have known that, Pongwiffy. By the way, is that a Hamster on your hat? And has it got a stupid accent, by any chance?’
‘It is,’ said Hugo, bristling. ‘It has. Vat of it?’
‘Aha! I knew it! I’ve been hearing all about you! King Futtout’s been complaining about you, if you must know. I might have known it’d be something to do with you, Pongwiffy . . .’
At this point, Ronald was interrupted, as Sharkadder swooped down upon him with glad cries and attempted to smother him in lipsticky kisses.
‘Please, Aunt Sharkadder,’ protested Ronald, wriggling out of her embrace, smoothing down his robe and straightening his hat, which had been knocked crooked. ‘Please. Do you mind . . . the robes . . .’
‘Oh, but look at you!’ cried Sharkadder fondly, fussing around and picking imaginary bits of cotton from his shoulder. ‘Look at you in all your fancy finery! When I think I used to dandle you on my lap and conjure up little green explosions to make you cry. Little did I know you’d grow into such a tall, handsome young man. Of course, good looks run in the family. Pity about the spots, though. Didn’t you use that new cream I sent you?’
‘Can we have tea now?’ asked Pongwiffy from the tea table, through a mouthful of custard. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m starving.’
‘Me too,’ announced Hugo, from somewhere inside the dish of green jelly.
‘Badness me, whatever am I thinking of? Where are my manners?’ cried Sharkadder. ‘Sit down, Ronald, do. Pongwiffy, get your fist out of that trifle and pull Ronald up a chair. Then we can sit down and have tea and Ronald can tell us all about his interview at the palace.’
And she ran to turn the kettle off.
‘Nice cloak,’ remarked Pongwiffy. ‘I like the stars on the lining. Very smart. What, glued on, are they? Or sewn?’
‘I really have no idea,’ said Ronald.
‘You’d better take it off if you’re having tea. It being so new and all,’ remarked Pongwiffy helpfully.
‘No, thank you,’ said Ronald. ‘I told you before. I don’t want to take it off.’
‘You might spill something down your front,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Ronald, staring at her.
‘I might spill something down your front,’ threatened Pongwiffy.
At that point, Sharkadder came hastening back with the teapot.
‘Right, shall I be mother? Now, do help yourself to a sandwich, Ronald. There’s spiderspread, grasshopper in mayonnaise or slug and lettuce. I’ve cut the crusts off. Here’s your tea. Strong with three sugars in a proper cup and saucer, just how you like it.’
‘Where’s my tea?’ complained Pongwiffy.
‘It’s coming, it’s coming, just wait. I do hope everything’s to your liking, Ronald. I’m afraid it won’t be up to the standard of the meals you get at the Wizards’ Clubhouse.’
‘Oh absolutely,’ agreed Ronald. ‘Some pretty amazing spreads we get there, I can tell you. Three courses at least. And paper serviettes.’
‘You hear that, Pong?’ breathed Sharkadder, terribly impressed. ‘Three courses! And paper serviettes. Well I never.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ronald, warming to his theme. ‘Three courses and a clean tablecloth every day. And our own goblets with our names on.’
‘Clean tablecloths!’ breathed Sharkadder, enthralled. ‘Own goblets! So sophisticated! Imagine, Pongwiffy.’
‘So what?’ growled Pongwiffy. ‘So what if there are clean tablecloths? Who cares? I hate clean tablecloths. Don’t encourage him, Sharkadder.’
Sharkadder ignored her.
‘You know what I’m dying to hear about, Ronald?’ she trilled, and gave a girlish little skip. ‘The password! Tell us about the password, do! It’s too, too thrilling!’
Ronald shook his head.
‘Sorry,’ he said importantly. ‘No can do, Aunt. All very hush-hush. Only We Wizards know it.’
‘It’s probably something really stupid and obvious, like Open Sesame,’ said Pongwiffy.
Ronald gasped.
‘How do you know?’ he cried, then went bright red and clapped his hand to his mouth.
‘Because you Wizards have no imagination,’ explained Pongwiffy.
‘Well, I’d sooner you didn’t mention it,’ Ronald muttered. ‘As I said, only We Wizards are supposed to know it. And the servants, of course.’
‘Servants? You have servants up at the Wizards’ Clubhouse?’ said Pongwiffy, suddenly perking up.
‘Certainly. Cooks. Butlers. Waiters,’ Ronald told her loftily.
‘You mean someone else washes your dirty socks?’ Pongwiffy wanted to know.
‘Of course,’ said Ronald. ‘We Wizards don’t have time to do all the menial tasks. Especially Those Of Us With Proper Jobs,’ he added proudly.
‘Oh, Ronald!’ cried Sharkadder, thrilled to pieces. ‘You did it! You got the job up at the palace! Oh, you clever, clever boy! Tell us all about it, then. How much does it pay? How many weeks holiday? Are there banquet vouchers? What are your duties?’
‘
Well – actually, I was about to come to that,’ said Ronald. ‘There’s something I wanted to discuss with you, Aunt. A small favour.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Sharkadder. She was still smiling a wide, toothy smile, but her voice bore a hint of frost. She was suspicious of people who asked favours, as anyone who knows Pongwiffy has a right to be. ‘And what might that be, Ronald?’
‘Well, King Futtout tells me there have been . . . well, a few problems with you Witches lately. I’m afraid he’s rather upset. And quite frankly, Aunt, it’s got to stop.’
There was a long pause, during which Sharkadder and Pongwiffy looked at Ronald. Even Hugo stuck his head up over the jelly dish and treated him to a long, hard stare.
‘Problems, Ronald?’ said Sharkadder in a silky voice. ‘What sort of problems?’
‘Oh, you know. Bat droppings on the lawn. Unlawful use of the swimming pool. Er – some unfortunate business with the Princess – er . . .’
Ronald tailed off. Suddenly he began to feel a little uncertain.
‘So?’ asked Sharkadder. ‘That’s Witch Business. I wouldn’t like to think that you were interfering in Witch Business, Ronald.’
‘Quite right, Sharky,’ chipped in Pongwiffy. ‘You tell him. It’s bad luck to stick your nose in Witch Business. I’d have thought you’d have known that, Ronald. All those exams.’
‘I just thought, you know . . . maybe a few words in the right ear . . .’
At this point, Ronald’s confidence deserted him completely. His throat went dry and he badly wanted a drink. He lifted the brimming cup to his lips and attempted to take a sip.
It was then that Pongwiffy leaned across the table and violently joggled his elbow, crying, ‘Ronald! You’ve just spilt some tea on your lovely new cloak! Take it off immediately. I’ll get a cloth!’
‘Oh, Pongwiffy, how could you be so clumsy!’ wailed Sharkadder, rushing forward and dabbing violently at Ronald with the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be the blanket from Dudley’s basket. So enthusiastic was she that Ronald toppled backwards out of his chair and landed on the floor with a little scream.
Just to complicate things still further, Dudley chose that very moment to stage his return. He came leaping in through the window and came face-to-face with his old enemy Hugo, who, by way of greeting, stuck his tongue out and flicked a spoonful of frog jelly in Dudley’s one remaining eye. An interesting chase followed, resulting in a lot of food ending up on Sharkadder’s newly spring-cleaned floor.
Meanwhile, under the table, Ronald fended off Pongwiffy as she attempted to forcibly divest him of his cloak. She would have succeeded too, if Sharkadder hadn’t come to the rescue.
It is best to draw a veil over the rest of the proceedings and skip straight to the outcome. The outcome was that Pongwiffy and Hugo were thrown out of the tea party in disgrace. Once again, Pongwiffy was minus a best friend. She didn’t even get one star from the Cloak of Darkness, let alone seven.
But she did get a good tea.
And an idea.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Seven Stolen Stars
The Wizards’ Clubhouse perched high in the Misty Mountains, some distance from Witchway Wood. (Wizards don’t tend to go in for woods much. They don’t enjoy roughing it. They prefer proper amenities, such as street lighting. Wizards like to stroll around in expensive robes, talking wisely in loud voices, and while they are doing this, they prefer not to step into a bog.) Even better than strolling around talking loudly and wisely was sitting down being waited on. That’s why most Wizards tended to live at the Clubhouse.
The Clubhouse was, as you might expect, very posh indeed. It sat glittering proudly at the top of a steep, imposing driveway consisting of yellow and pink crazy paving with silver grouting. There were curly bits and twiddly bits and bits which squirted coloured water. There were spirals and murals and gargoyles and symbols. Someone had gone mad with a lot of gold paint. The Wizards’ flag (a sort of messy mishmash of crossed staves and lightning bolts and stars and moons and stuff) flew from the topmost turret.
‘So that’s the famous Wizards’ Clubhouse,’ said Pongwiffy, peering round an ornamental fountain. ‘Don’t think much of it, do you? Give me a nice filthy hovel any time. All those fancy spires and portals and stars and carved knockers and stuff. Bad taste, I call it.’
‘Ssh,’ hissed Hugo. ‘Keep voice down.’
‘And the colours! Yuck. Makes my eyes water. All that pink and gold. What’s wrong with nice plain serviceable black, I want to know?’
‘Mistress! Please!’ begged Hugo. ‘Ve don’t vant to be catched.’
‘Oh, stop being such an old worry-pouches. If I’d known you were going to be like this I wouldn’t have brought you with me. Where’s all that famous Hamster swashbuckle you’re always talking about? Where’s your sense of adventure? All that spring-cleaning’s turned you soft. Now, where’s my disguise?’
Obediently the Broom came scuttling forward with a badly wrapped newspaper parcel.
‘I still say you crazy,’ said Hugo in a sulky voice. He didn’t like being called soft. ‘If Sourmuddle find out about zis, she throw you out of Coven. Zen I out of job.’
‘Serve you right,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘In fact, just recently, I’ve been wondering if you’re up to the job. It seems that if I want anything done I have to do it myself. Anyway, it’s taken me ages to get all the ingredients together and I’m not stopping now. I’ve only got the seven stars to go. If all goes well, we can make the potion tonight. Now, how do I look?’
Hugo looked at her. Slowly, he shook his head. ‘It von’t vork,’ he said.
‘Yes, it will. I am the very image of a rosy-cheeked washerwoman.’
‘No, you not,’ argued Hugo. ‘Vashervimmin alvays clean. You filthy.’
‘But I’ve got the frilly apron and the cap and everything!’ Pongwiffy was hurt. She had indeed gone to a lot of trouble to look the part, even making sure that a handful of clothes pegs and an old bar of soap (stolen, naturally) protruded from her apron pocket.
‘Zey filthy too. I tell you it von’t vork.’
‘Well, whose fault is all this anyway!’ cried Pongwiffy crossly, stamping her foot. ‘If you hadn’t thrown out my Cardigan of Invisibility, we wouldn’t have to bother with all this disguise nonsense!’
‘I not throw it out!’ denied Hugo.
‘Oh ha! Next thing you’ll be saying you didn’t even see it!’
‘Of course I not see it! How I see it? It invisible!’
‘Oh, pass the laundry basket. I’m not standing around here arguing with you a minute longer! I’ll show you how it’s done. Stay here and keep watch with the Broom. And be prepared for a quick getaway.’
Bad-temperedly, Pongwiffy snatched up her most important prop – the battered red plastic basket she had found on the rubbish dump – and marched up the crazy-paving path which led to the star-studded front doors of the Wizards’ Clubhouse.
‘Not zat one! Not ze front door! Go to ze tradesman’s entrance at ze side!’ called Hugo. But he was too late. Pongwiffy had already knocked, using the heavy carved knocker.
Not content with that, she gave the bell-rope a determined yank and at the same time kicked the door sharply with the toe of her boot.
‘Open up,’ bawled Pongwiffy over the clanging. ‘Hurry up in there, get a move on!’
‘She blow it!’ moaned Hugo to the Broom. ‘I know it! She blow it! She overconfident. I not look.’
Pongwiffy tapped her foot impatiently. She was just about to kick the door again, when there came an unpleasant crackling noise from one of the decorative stars. Pongwiffy gave a little jump.
‘This is a recorded message,’ shrieked a harsh voice in Pongwiffy’s ear. ‘Oozat? Wachoo want? Please speak clearly after the tone or belt up and go away.’
There was a terrible burst of static, then silence.
‘Washerwoman,’ bellowed Pongwiffy into the star. ‘Harmless old washerwoman, come to collect the dirty c
lothes.’
Immediately, she came up in green spots.
‘Password?’ grated the voice.
‘Open Sesame, of course,’ squawked Pongwiffy. ‘Hurry up, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got to get back to my – er – mangle. Oh yes, there’s a mountain of ironing I’ve got to do. That’s because I’m a washer-woman.’
There was a pause, followed by a great deal of interference from the primitive intercom. (Wizards are creative types. When it comes to anything the slightest bit technical, they’re all thumbs.) Then, slowly and dramatically, with a good deal of theatrical squeaking, the doors swung open and Pongwiffy strode into the vestibule.
Inside, it had been done out in red flock wallpaper. Dreary organ music issued forth tinnily from a couple of cheap wall speakers. Dull portraits of miserable-looking bearded ancients in pointy hats stared down from the walls. There was a headache-inducing, swirling, multicoloured carpet. There was a polished desk marked RECEPTION behind which a bored-looking female Zombie with large brass earrings and a tangled mass of green hair chewed gum and read a magazine.
Pongwiffy marched over to the reception desk and briskly rang the bell.
‘Yeah?’ said the Zombie, not even looking up. She was reading an article entitled ‘Scott Sinister – Man or Myth?’
‘Where’s the cloakroom?’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Dearie.’
Slowly, the Zombie looked up and stared rudely. Pongwiffy gave her what she imagined to be a broad Honest Washerwoman smile.
‘Oooja saya wuzagin?’ said the Zombie. She wore a badge proclaiming that she was Brenda and that she was At Your Service.
‘Harmless old washerwoman. Mrs Flushing’s my name. From the new laundry down the road,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘Nobody’s said nuffink to me,’ said Brenda, pulling her gum out to arm’s length in a long grey string then letting it coil back down into her mouth.