by Kaye Umansky
‘You mean they haven’t told you?’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘About the new arrangement? How I’m to come and collect the dirty cloaks every Wednesday? Well, if that doesn’t beat all. You’d think they’d have told you. You’re not expecting me, then?’
‘No,’ said Brenda, blowing a bubble. ‘’Ere. You’re covered in green spots, you are.’
‘Oh, am I? Really? Probably my allergy. I’m allergic to multicoloured carpets. Frightened by one as a child. Terrible thing. Oh well, can’t stand chatting here all day. This way, is it? To the little boys’ room? Down this passage?’
‘’Ere, jussa minute, you can’t . . .’
‘Don’t worry, dear, I’ll find it.’
And Pongwiffy marched purposefully off down a long passageway, leaving Brenda with an uncertain expression on her face.
The lounge was packed with Wizards. For the most part, they sat silently in overstuffed armchairs, glancing impatiently at their watches, snoozing, doing the crossword, leafing through back copies of Wizards’ World or merely dribbling into their beards whilst waiting for the dinner gong.
It was hard to know they were Wizards when they were without their Hats of Knowledge and Cloaks of Darkness. Bald heads and very old woolly jumpers predominated. An ancient retainer creaked around amongst them, handing out small glasses of smoking green stuff.
Ronald was standing casually at the window, pretending not to mind that all the chairs had been taken so there was nowhere for him to sit. Neither had there been a peg available in the cloakroom. He was the new boy, so everyone tended to ignore him. He was, he noticed, the only one who hadn’t been offered a glass of the smoking green stuff.
‘Hasn’t our Brenda got round to ordering a chair for you yet, young Ronald?’ jeered a rat-faced Wizard, from the depths of the comfiest sofa. His name was Frank the Foreteller and he specialised in Foreknowledge.
‘Actually, I rather like standing,’ said Ronald.
‘I knew you were going to say that,’ cried Frank the Foreteller triumphantly, slapping his knee. ‘I knew he was going to say that,’ he repeated to the room at large. Several Wizards looked up from their newspapers and stared at Ronald as though they were seeing him for the first time.
‘You’re looking flushed, young Ronald. Why don’t you take your cloak off?’ suggested Frank the Foreteller, winking at the watching Wizards, really rubbing things in. ‘We’re all informal here, lad – you don’t have to stand on ceremony.’
‘Actually, I don’t have a peg,’ said Ronald stiffly.
‘I know you don’t,’ crowed Frank the Foreteller. ‘And I can foretell you won’t have one for a long time to come,’ he added spitefully. ‘And how did the interview go, young Ronald? Applied for a post at the palace, eh?’
‘Well, yes, I . . .’
‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, you got the job. I knew that. Saw it in the tea leaves yesterday. So old Futtout wants you to do something about the Witches, eh?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I know, you don’t have to tell me. Of course, you know you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think I . . .’
‘Oh yes, oh dear me yes. Tricky business, dealing with Witches. You’re going to come a cropper.’
‘King Futtout has every conf—’
‘Yes, when it comes to handling Witches, some have got it and some haven’t.’
‘Look, I really . . .’
‘No point in arguing, young feller. I know. I can foretell. I can foretell most things. In fact, I can foretell the dinner gong’s about to go.’
There really was no point in talking to him. Ronald turned away. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of someone – a servant, no doubt – hurrying past the doorway carrying what looked like a heaped pile of clothes in a basket. For a moment, there was an unpleasant, somehow familiar smell in the air. He couldn’t quite place it, but he knew he’d smelt it before. It was on the tip of his nose . . .
The gong went. There was a united sigh of relief, and a general stirring and cracking of bones as the Wizards heaved themselves out of their armchairs and made for the door, eager to be first in the queue for the dining room.
The exodus was halted by the sudden appearance of Brenda in the doorway. She was breathing heavily and was rather flushed, as though she had been lumbering a shade faster than usual.
‘You can orl siddown again,’ announced Brenda. ‘That weren’t the dinner gong. Dinner ain’t ready yet. That were the emergency gong. I just come up to tell you we bin robbed, see? Loada cloaks gawn from the cloakroom. An’ before you start, it weren’t my fault. She said she wuz a washerwoman. ’Ow wuz I to know?’
There was instant panic amongst the Wizards. This was grave news indeed! Not only were the cloaks stolen, dinner wasn’t ready!
Ronald couldn’t resist it. He turned to Frank the Foreteller.
‘Pity you couldn’t have foretold that,’ he remarked with a smirk.
He could afford to be smug. You see, he was the only one who hadn’t hung his cloak up in the cloakroom!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brewing Up
It was full moon – or, as Granny Malodour would have put it, Fulle Moone. In the hovel, preparations were well under way. The fire was lit and the cauldron was giving off promising gloppy noises. Rich brown muddy fumes curled into the air, mingling unpleasantly with the all-pervading smell of Reeka Reeka Roses. Pongwiffy peered in at the brew, sniffed, stirred, tasted and gave a nod.
‘The quicksand’s nearly ready. How are you getting on with the chopping?’
‘I done ze visker and ze fezzer and ze golden hair. I still got ze bobble and ze stars to do.’
‘Well, get a move on,’ snapped Pongwiffy. ‘We’ve only got until the cock crows, you know.’
‘Chop, chop, chop, all I do is chop. It make my paw ache. I sink it my turn to stir now.’
‘Certainly not! Haven’t you heard the old saying? Too Many Witches Spoil The Brew. Familiars chop, Witches stir. That’s the way things are done. Keep chopping or you’re fired.’
She hunched down grumpily in her chair, bit her nails and scowled. It wasn’t like her to be so bad-tempered when she was brewing up. It was just that, somehow, things didn’t feel right. There simply wasn’t an atmosphere. Everywhere was too clean and tidy. There were too few shadows; there was far too much hygiene. Even the cauldron had been scraped out and there were none of those interesting little black bits to drop into whatever was cooking.
Pongwiffy sighed deeply. She missed the dirt and the cobwebs and the little black bits. In the past there had always been dirt and cobwebs and little black bits when she made a brew. There was supposed to be dirt and cobwebs and little black bits. It was traditional.
‘If you only let me use uzzer paw . . .’
‘No.’
Firmly, Pongwiffy tapped Granny Malodour’s Spell Book, which lay crumbling away before her on the kitchen table.
‘No. The recipe says “Using thy left hand only.” We’ve got to do it right. The important thing about making a decent brew is to get the details right.’
‘Vy ze Broom not help?’ sulked Hugo.
‘Because I’ve posted it outside on guard duty. I’ve told it to give three loud knocks as a warning signal if anyone comes. We don’t want unexpected visitors, do we?’
‘Hmm. I just hope all zis choppink vorth it,’ said Hugo doubtfully. ‘Suppose it not vork? Sometimes zese old recipes . . .’
‘You just don’t understand, do you? This is Granny’s Wishing Water, Hugo. Granny’s spells always work. And if it doesn’t, I shall blame you. It’ll be because the lock of hair isn’t fresh . . .’
She broke off as there came three thunderous knocks on the door. Hugo jumped into the air and the knife he was holding dropped from his numb paw. Quite a bit of chopped hair spilt on the floor. Guiltily, Pongwiffy snatched up the cauldron lid and slammed it down over the illicit brew.
‘It he
r!’ gasped Hugo. ‘It Sourmuddle! Now you done it! She caught us! Now vat ve gonna do?’
‘Stall her,’ hissed Pongwiffy, throwing Granny Malodour’s Spell Book under the nearest cushion and spraying the air liberally with Reeka Reeka Roses.
Then a voice spoke.
‘Pong?’ it said. ‘Is that you in there, Pong? It’s all right, you can open up. It’s only me, Sharky.’
Gasping with relief, Pongwiffy scuttled across and threw open the hovel door. Sure enough, outside stood Sharkadder. She had obviously come in a hurry, because her Broomstick looked all in. In one hand she held her handbag. In the other was a large, fragrant, still-warm, home-made fungus sponge. Pongwiffy’s Broom stood on the doorstep, twiggy arms out-stretched, boldly blocking her way.
‘Hello, Pong,’ said Sharkadder, holding out the sponge. ‘Tell your idiot Broomstick to get out of my way, will you? I’ve brought you a cake as a peace offering. Just out of the oven.’
‘Sharky! What a sight for sore eyes! Come in, come in!’ cried Pongwiffy, never one to turn down an offer of friendship. Or cake, for that matter. ‘I just can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. Broom! Get out of Witch Sharkadder’s way this minute!’
Huffily, the Broom moved to one side and threw itself against the hovel wall. Sharkadder propped hers next to it, and the two of them began the low, mutinous rustling which is the Broom equivalent of discontented whispering.
‘Come on in, then,’ said Pongwiffy, reaching for the sponge. ‘I suppose you’ve come to make up?’
‘No, I made up before I came,’ explained Sharkadder, following her in. ‘Doesn’t it show?’
It did. Her hair was frizzed, her face was chalky white, she was wearing her longest spiderleg eyelashes and a great deal of beetroot-coloured lipstick.
‘But if you mean have I come to make friends again, yes I have,’ she added. ‘I’ve decided to forgive you again, Pong. I’ve been talking it over with Dudley, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Ronald was every bit as much to blame as you for spoiling my tea party.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Pongwiffy, biting into the fungus sponge. ‘And Dudley? What conclusion did he come to?’
‘The opposite,’ confessed Sharkadder. ‘He says it’s all your fault. I must admit I agreed with him. Until Ronald sent me a dry-cleaning bill!’
‘Never!’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘And you his aunty? Surely not!’
‘Yes, he did. The cheek of it. It arrived this morning. And there was me thinking it was a letter saying thank you for the lovely tea. And not a word about the spot cream I gave him either. No manners at all.’
‘I told you so,’ Pongwiffy reminded her. ‘If that’s not a typical Wizard. I always said Ronald was a snobby little swankpot, didn’t I?’
‘And you were right. My badness, it’s clean in here, isn’t it?’ Sharkadder suddenly exclaimed. ‘I do believe you’ve swept the floor! And all your cobwebs have gone. It doesn’t look like your hovel at all, Pongwiffy.’
‘I know,’ said Pongwiffy, with a bitter little glance at Hugo, who sucked in his pouches and looked obstinate.
‘Anyway, as I told Dudley, “Friendship’s Thicker Than Bogwater”,’ continued Sharkadder. ‘Besides, I know you’re up to something and I want to know what it is.’
Sharkadder’s long white nose sniffed the air.
‘Aha! I thought so! I detect hot quicksand. You’re working on your secret spell, aren’t you? Is that a brew you’ve got going over there in the cauldron? Let’s have a look.’
Sharkadder swept across, lifted the cauldron lid and examined the bubbling quicksand with a critical eye.
‘Smells awful. Is Dudley’s whisker in there?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Hmm. There’s none of your usual little black bits. What is it, anyway? Come on, Pong, you might as well come clean.’
‘Come clean? Me? Never!’ said Pongwiffy with a shudder. ‘But I suppose now you’re here and we’re friends again, I might as well tell you everything. Keep your eye on the cauldron while I put the kettle on. Hugo! What did I just tell you? Get on with that chopping.’
And while Hugo got on with the chopping, Sharkadder stirred the cauldron and drank bogwater and Pongwiffy ate the sponge and showed her Granny Malodour’s recipe and told her all about the difficulties she’d had getting hold of the ingredients.
‘Well!’ said Sharkadder, when she had finished. ‘Well, I never did. So that’s what it’s all about! You’ve got the recipe for Granny Malodour’s famous Wishing Water! Well, well, well. Lucky old you. I’ve always wanted to try that stuff. You should have told me that’s what you were planning, Pongwiffy. I’d have pulled out one of Dudley’s whiskers myself. And if it comes out right, you mean to enter it for the Spell of the Year Competition, did you say?’
‘Most definitely,’ agreed Pongwiffy. ‘So you see why I wanted to keep it a secret?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Sharkadder doubtfully. ‘Although I still think you could have told me about it. After all, I am your best friend.’
‘You didn’t want me to come in,’ Pongwiffy reminded her. ‘You wanted to get on with the spring-cleaning, remember? You said you didn’t want me smelling the place up.’
Sharkadder looked sheepish.
‘You caught me at a bad moment,’ she confessed.
‘Not to worry. I forgive you,’ said Pongwiffy graciously. ‘And I tell you what!’ she added, in a spirit of generosity. ‘You can help me! We’ll do it together, and we’ll both enter it for the competition. It’ll be a joint entry. Pongwiffy and Sharkadder’s Wonderful Wishing Water. It’s got a certain ring to it, don’t you think?’
Sharkadder thought about it. She’d been far too busy spring-cleaning to give much thought to the Spell of the Year Competition. She had vaguely thought about entering her new spot cream, the one she’d tried out on Ronald, but looking at him she suspected it still needed a bit of work. That was the trouble with spring-cleaning. It left no time for Magic.
‘Think of the prizes,’ Pongwiffy tempted her.
Sharkadder thought of the prizes. There were some good ones. A large silver cup with your name on, for a start. Plus a year’s interest-free credit at Malpractiss Magic Ltd, two carefree weeks in the drizzle at Sludgehaven-on-Sea, timeshare on a flying carpet, a year’s subscription for The Daily Miracle and, for some strange reason, a lifetime’s supply of Reeka Reeka Roses.
‘We’re sure to win,’ said Pongwiffy confidently. ‘Besides, I’m really looking forward to trying Granny’s Wishing Water again. I tell you, Sharky, this stuff is Magic! It really works. One sip, one wish. Simple as that. Imagine, Sharky. Your heart’s secret desire.’
Sharkadder had a fleeting daydream for a moment that involved a small, exclusive dress shop in a better part of the Wood and a career in modelling.
‘All right, then,’ said Sharkadder. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Chop,’ said Pongwiffy and Hugo together.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ronald Tells
‘Who did you say you were again?’ said Sourmuddle snappily, fumbling for her glasses. She was standing on her doorstep in her nightie in the drizzle in the dark at a stupid hour of the night while some pushy, pimpled pest in a pointy hat shouted down her ear trumpet, and she didn’t take kindly to it.
‘RONALD! I’M RONALD!’
‘Well, Donald, let’s just get one thing clear before I catch my death. I don’t want double glazing or patio doors or a cheap ironing-board cover or a selection of alpine scenes hand-painted on velvet. Neither do I want my garden weeding or my windows washing or my chimney swept. What I do want, Roland, is a decent night’s sleep. So why don’t you just run along before I lose my temper and turn you into something nasty?’
‘I’M NOT SELLING ANYTHING!’ bellowed Ronald. ‘I’M A WIZARD.’
‘A what?’
‘A WIZARD!’
‘Here,’ said Grandwitch Sourmuddle, polishing her glasses with the end of her nightcap. ‘He
re, you remind me of someone, you know.’
‘I’M RONALD! SHARKADDER’S MY AUNT!’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute, it’s on the tip of my – ha! I know who it is! Sharkadder’s awful little nephew! The stuck-up one with the pimples. The one who wants to be a Wizard when he grows up. Rudolph or something. You’re the spitting image.’
‘RONALD!’ screamed Ronald through tortured tonsils. ‘RONALD! IT’S ME! I HAVE GROWN UP. I AM A WIZARD AND I’M HERE ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS! I WISH TO MAKE A FORMAL COMPLAINT ABOUT ONE OF YOUR WITCHES!’
‘Complaint? What have you got to complain about? You’re not standing on your doorstep in your nightshirt, are you? If anyone’s got a complaint, it’s me. And stop shouting like that, you’re giving me a headache. Think I’m deaf or something?’
‘IT’S ABOUT – it’s about Pongwiffy, Grandwitch Sourmuddle. She’s really overstepped the mark this time.’
‘Eh? Pongwiffy? What about Pongwiffy? If you’re referring to that Princess Business, young Randolph, I’ve already dealt with that. I’ve told her to write to the palace and apologise.’
‘No, no, it’s much worse than that. Earlier today, cunningly disguised as a washerwoman, she infiltrated We Wizards’ private Clubhouse and stole a number of cloaks. These were later retrieved from the bottom of an ornamental fountain. Upon examination, we found that several valuable stars had been forcibly removed. The owners will, of course, be claiming compensation.’
‘Hold your horses, sonny,’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘Are you quite sure about this? You’re making a serious allegation, you know.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Ronald eagerly. ‘I’m glad you see it our way, Sourmuddle. Stealing Wizards’ cloaks is a serious business.’
‘The cloaks? Who gives a bat squeak for the cloaks? No, what I’m annoyed about is that I personally banned Pongwiffy from all Magical activity for one entire week. She’s not allowed to read so much as one tea leaf. Are you saying she’s still running about making a nuisance of herself? In defiance of my orders?’