by Kaye Umansky
‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ insisted Frank the Foreteller. ‘They’ll lower the tone, you mark my words.’
‘Sure to be some truth in that as well,’ nodded Gerald the Just fairly.
‘Actually, I’ve heard that Sludgehaven’s not the place it once was,’ observed a short, pipe-smoking Wizard with a large burn hole in his sleeve. His name was Fred the Flameraiser. His speciality was setting fire to things. ‘A lot of riff-raff there these days. And someone told me they’re about to open some sort of ghastly Theme Park for Goblins just along the coast. Gobboworld or something. The Sludgehaven Council’s been trying to get it stopped, and quite right too.’
Just then, a thin, tremulous sound quavered up from the scrawny throat of the Venerable Harold the Hoodwinker, the oldest Wizard of all. It was quite unusual for the Venerable Harold to wake up between meals, let alone contribute to the conversation, so everybody paid attention.
‘Shludgehaven? Ishn’t that where our Convention ish being held thish year?’ enquired the Venerable Harold in his reedy little voice.
There was a long silence, heavy with anxiety, while the Wizards tried to remember.
‘He could be right, you know,’ said Dave the Druid at last. ‘I’m pretty sure it began with an S. And it’s on the coast.’
‘Might be Spittlesands,’ came the voice of Alf the Invisible, providing a little flicker of hope in the all-pervading gloom. ‘Spittlesands is on the coast. Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s Spittlesands. Find the letter about it, Dave – it’ll be behind the clock. I’d do it myself, but you know . . .’
Dave the Druid hurried over to the mantelpiece and dragged a yellowing pile of old postcards, unpaid bills and ancient circulars from behind the clock. It was a large clock, ornately carved and covered in meaningful astrological symbols. It had a massive key for winding and a big, slow-moving pendulum. It showed the rainfall on Oz, the humidity in Never Land and the current time and temperature in Narnia. Its face was a mass of tiny dials and gauges and little spinning hands. None of the Wizards could work out how to tell the time from it, but it had a solemn sort of tick, which suited the lounge, and was useful for stuffing junk mail behind.
‘Now, what have we got here? Spell circulars, Fly Me Carpets cards, the sausage bill – ah, here we are. Oh dearie dearie me. Harold’s right. What a disaster. It is Sludgehaven.’
The small flicker of hope provided by Alf died.
‘In fact, I remember now. Brenda booked us the top-floor suite at the Magician’s Retreat. That’s where the Convention is being held.’
There was an even heavier silence.
‘On the other hand,’ said Gerald the Just, ‘we should look on the bright side. It’d be pretty bad luck if the Witches are there the same time as us. And even if they are, they won’t bother us. After all, we spend all our time in the hotel, don’t we? Having our Convention.’
Ronald had been listening to all this with interest. He had only been a proper Wizard for a short time, and still had a lot to learn. This was the first time he had heard of any Convention.
‘What, you mean we go away?’ he asked. ‘Have a Convention, you mean? At the seaside? In a proper hotel and everything? And meet other Magicians and Sorcerers and Soothsayers and have intelligent conversations and – and – read out learned papers and stuff? Really?’
‘All that, and a sea view as well,’ Gerald the Just told him. ‘You can’t say fairer than that,’ he added fairly.
‘Could I read out a paper?’ enquired Ronald breathlessly.
‘Well, yes. Anyone can.’
‘Wow!’ said Ronald. He couldn’t wait to find a pen and paper and get started. But first he had another burning question to ask.
‘Do – er – do we get to paddle?’
He tried to sound casual, but deep down he was very excited. He had never paddled. In fact, if the truth be known, he had never even been to the seaside.
This brought forth a chorus of disapproval.
‘Certainly not! The very idea!’
‘I didn’t get where I am today through paddling!’
‘Wizards paddling indeed! Mixing on the beach with the plebs! Where’s your sense of dignity, boy?’
‘This isn’t a holiday, you know!’
‘Sorry,’ said Ronald, quite humbly for him. ‘Do go on. About the Convention.’
But someone heard the distant rattling of cups and saucers, which meant that elevenses were on their way.
And with Wizards, elevenses always come first.
CHAPTER SIX
Scott Sinister – Has-Been!
In the curling grey mists of dawn, a forlorn, wind-whipped figure stood by the rail at the end of the Sludgehaven pier, staring out to sea. This was Scott Sinister, once Famous Star of Stage and Screen. His cape flapped wildly about him and his sunglasses were flattened against his pale, thin face, making his eyes water.
Apart from Scott and a couple of large Yetis busily setting up a hot-dog stand, the pier was deserted. The Ice-Cream Parlour, the Rifle Range, the Coconut Shy, the Hall of Mirrors, the Haunted House, the Fortune Teller’s booth and the Souvenir Stall – all lay empty.
Above him, mewling seagulls circled in the grey sky. Below, between the planks, scummy waves sploshed against the barnacled supports. Behind him rose the Pier Pavilion – a crumbling dome of flaky paintwork and cracked plaster cherubs with missing noses. A broad flight of steps led up to the main doors, to the right of which hung a billboard. It said, in whacking great letters:
Opening Soon!
summer spektacular
Starring
LUSCIOUS LULU LAMARRE
and
Spot Snitser
Not only was he bottom of the bill, they had even spelt his name wrong. Scott couldn’t look at it without bursting into tears – which, if the truth be known, was why his eyes were watering, and nothing at all to do with wind or sunglasses.
Poor Scott. The world of show business is fickle and things hadn’t been going at all well for him lately. His last film, Return of the Avenging Killer Poodles IV, had flopped horribly. The punters had stayed away in droves, and the film had broken all box office records with the lowest ever takings in history (£5.25, and that was from his mum).
Since then, he had been what is commonly referred to in show business circles as ‘resting’, which in all other circles means out of a job. His pathetic spot in the Summer Spektacular was the first bit of work he had been offered in over six months.
The Yeti Brothers finished setting up their stall and the smell of frying onions drifted towards Scott, making his empty stomach churn. He turned from the rail and walked back along the pier.
The Yetis stared at him as he approached. Their names were Spag Yeti and Conf Yeti, and they had a monopoly of fast food in these parts. Greasy-spoon cafes, pizza parlours, burger bars – they owned them all and ran them all, Spag taking the orders, Conf doing the cooking. They did wedding receptions and birthday parties too. They seemed to work in a hundred places simultaneously. Nobody knew how they did it. Maybe they cloned themselves in some mysterious Yeti way. Or maybe they were just very fast runners.
‘Yeah?’ said Spag, who was cleaning his claws with a fork. His brother sat in the background, sullenly slicing tomatoes.
‘A hot dog, if you please, my good man,’ said Scott, counting out coins.
‘You gotta wait,’ said Spag, staring at him. ‘Onions ain’t-a burnt-a yet.’
Scott tutted irritably. He wasn’t used to waiting for food. One click of the fingers, that’s all it used to take. But that was when he was rich and famous and able to afford posh meals in fancy restaurants. Now he was poor and desperate, at the mercy of hairy oafs in greasy waistcoats.
‘Mamma mia! I know you!’ cried Spag suddenly. ‘You’re Scott-a Seenister, the feelm-a star!’
‘Well – yes, actually,’ Scott admitted, smoothing his hair back.
‘Hey, Conf, look-a here!’ Spag gave his brother a prod with his fork. ‘Ees-a Sc
ott-a Seenister! Hey, Scott! Our mama used to love-a your feelms.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Scott, reaching into his pocket for pad and paper so that he could graciously give his autograph.
‘She theenk-a you rubbish now,’ Spag informed him.
Scott bit his lip, made out he was looking for a hanky and said nothing. This sort of thing was always happening. One slap in the face after another.
‘Een-a the show, then?’ enquired Spag, jerking his head towards the Pier Pavilion.
‘Yes,’ agreed Scott. Well, he was. Just.
‘Must-a remember not-a to come,’ said Spag, adding with a leer, ‘Mind you, that-a Lulu Lamarre, she a corker, she ees. Dona you theenk so?’
‘No,’ said Scott stiffly. ‘I don’t.’
He clenched his fists and turned away so that Spag couldn’t see the black rage welling up inside him. Lulu Lamarre indeed! The very sound of her name was enough.
All right, so once she had been his girlfriend. That was back in the good old days, when she had been a humble starlet and his career was at an all-time high. Then had come the unpleasant incident at a Witch Talent Contest when a certain smelly old Witch – what was her revolting name again? – had taken exception to his beloved, called her a stuck-up hussy and, in a fit of jealous pique, had made her vanish in a puff of smoke!
Lulu hadn’t reappeared for days. When she did, they had had a blazing row, after which she had stormed out, vowing never to return.
He wouldn’t have minded – well, not that much – except that she had become a star overnight, calling herself Luscious Lulu Lamarre and taking top billing over him! In the blink of an eye she had become a household name, while he became a nobody. He had never felt so mortified in his life.
‘What hotel-a you staying at?’ enquired Spag, breaking into his thoughts.
Scott pulled himself together.
‘The Ritz, naturally,’ he lied with a haughty air. ‘Where all the stars stay.’
He wasn’t really, of course. He couldn’t even afford bed and breakfast, let alone a posh hotel like the Ritz. In fact, it was as much as he could do to scrape together enough money for breakfast. The truth was, he was camping out in his dressing room in the Pier Pavilion. Well, it wasn’t so much a dressing room. More a broom cupboard really. A broom cupboard-cum-junk room, lit by a single bare bulb, stuffed with buckets and mops and bits of old scenery and smelling of mice. He had complained to the management, of course – but it hadn’t got him very far.
Lulu had the big, proper dressing room – the one with the star on the door and the little lights around the mirror and the huge wardrobe for all her costume changes. And the one and only coffee machine.
‘Here’s your hot-a dog,’ said Spag, handing it over.
Ah! Food at last. Scott’s spirits rose a little. Eagerly, he bit into it.
As you might expect, it tasted awful.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mrs Molotoff Prepares
‘Cyril! Have you got the keys to the larder?’
‘No, my love,’ came a worried bleat from the kitchen.
‘Well, where are they, then? You know I don’t like them lying around, particularly with a party of Witches about to descend on us.’
The door to the dining room opened and Mrs Molotoff, landlady of Ocean View, strode into the room. She stood, arms akimbo, glaring around. A tiny curved beak of a nose jutted out of her big, cross red face. She had hard beady eyes and a sour little mouth painted a fearsome shade of vermilion. Her clashing red hair was arranged in a complicated series of nests on top of her head.
Her eagle eye alighted on a huge bunch of keys lying on the table.
‘Aha! Here they are. You left them on the table, Cyril! I said, you left them on the table! That was very foolish, Cyril, very foolish indeed.’
She swooped upon the keys, dropped them into her apron pocket and gave it a satisfied little pat.
‘Sorry, my love.’
‘I should think so. I dread to think what might happen if that lot get at the larder, simply dread to think. You know what Witches are like. What are you doing now, Cyril?’
‘Counting the tea leaves, my love.’
‘Well, be quick about it. The beds haven’t been made yet. And what about the breakfast menus? Have you done those?’
‘Not yet, my love.’
‘Well, get a move on. And don’t forget what I told you. A boiled egg or a piece of toast, not both. We’re trying to run a business here. And, Cyril–’
‘Yes, my love?’
‘Don’t use the best sheets. Only one piece of soap in the bathroom. And half a candle each to light them to bed. Half, mind, not three-quarters. And don’t forget what I told you. Three to a room, four wherever possible. And no Familiars in the bathroom. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s bats in a bathroom. And if they try to sneak in any Magical equipment, it’s to be surrendered to me upon arrival. If you see anything suspicious, you’re to tell me. I’m not having any cackling around cauldrons nonsense in this house.’
‘My love, I don’t think Witches will take too kindly . . .’
‘Witches? Ha! They don’t frighten me. I’ve seen ’em all, I have. Skeletons, Zombies, Trolls, the lot. Witches are no different. They’ll obey the House Rules, same as anyone else!’
Mrs Molotoff straightened the copy of the House Rules, which hung in a prominent position by the mantelpiece, cast a steely eye over the table, moved a fork half a millimetre to the left and went off to water down the orange juice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Coach
‘Well, this is nice, isn’t it? Come on, Sharky, admit it’s nice. Bowling along in a luxury air-conditioned motor coach on our way to the seaside. And all thanks to me,’ said Pongwiffy, settling back in her seat with a pleased sigh. Up on her hat, Hugo (wearing a tiny pair of shorts and a jaunty straw hat) made himself comfortable and began to draw little Hamster faces on the dirty glass of the window.
‘If this filthy old wreck is a luxury air-conditioned motor coach, I’m the Sugarplum Fairy,’ grumbled Sharkadder, in a bad mood because Pongwiffy had pinched the window seat.
‘Oh, don’t be such an old fusspot. It’s a nice little coach. Homely. I think it’s quite clever, the way it’s all held together with string. I loved it when the exhaust pipe fell off on the driver’s foot when he was loading the Brooms into the boot. It’s got character, this coach. It could have been a touch bigger, mind. We are a bit squashed.’
It could. They were. Fitting thirteen argumentative Witches and their assorted Familiars, Brooms and luggage into one saggy, old, fit-for-the-scrap-heap coach had been no easy task. However, after a good deal of squabbling, everyone had finally managed to find a seat (except Gaga, who had elected to hang from the luggage rack with her Bats). And now the holiday spirit was back with a vengeance as they trundled, creaking and backfiring, along the winding road that led away from dripping Witchway Wood towards the as yet unknown delights of the sunny seaside.
Everyone was really beginning to get the hang of things. There are certain traditional things you do on a coach, and the Witches were determined to get their money’s worth. There were sweets to be passed and maps to be consulted. There was scenery to be admired. There were sandwiches to be eaten. There were passing wayfarers to make rude faces at. There were songs to be sung.
‘Ten green lizards wiggling down the road!’ started up the Witches in the back seat, led by Sourmuddle.
‘Ten green lizards
Wiggling down the road,
And if one green lizard
Should suddenly explode . . .’
‘What a vulgar racket,’ tutted Sharkadder, clutching her head. ‘You’d think Sourmuddle would tell them, wouldn’t you?’
‘You would,’ agreed Pongwiffy, looking around to see where Sourmuddle was. She located her slap in the middle of the back seat, about to commence a solo. ‘On second thoughts, maybe you wouldn’t. After all, it is a holiday. We’re supposed to b
e letting our hair down.’
‘Mine’s down already,’ said Sharkadder, taking out a mirror and examining her tortured curls with satisfaction. ‘This is my holiday style. It’s called Matted Mermaid. I think it rather suits me.’
In honour of the occasion, she had twined a bright green length of material printed with little anchors around her tall hat. Her hair was dyed to match and huge, unnerving octopus earrings dangled from her ears. A kind of Sea Theme, as she explained to anybody who would listen. The Theme apparently extended to Dudley, who was kitted out with a matching scarf which he wore rakishly over one ear.
‘Oh, it does. It’s lovely. I must say you look very stylish, Sharky. Very holidayish. I really like the Sea Theme.’
‘Why, thank you, Pong.’ Sharkadder brightened up a bit and fumbled in her handbag for her sea-green lipstick. ‘I like to look my best. I don’t like to let the Coven down. Not like some people.’
She stared pointedly at Pongwiffy’s holey cardigan.
‘Do you mind? These are my holiday rags,’ said Pongwiffy, slightly hurt.
‘What d’you mean? They’re what you always wear.’
‘No, they’re not.’ Pongwiffy pointed proudly at some new red blobs. ‘I’ve painted flowers on, see? Nice flowery print, very suitable for the seaside.’
Sharkadder opened her mouth to speak, then decided not to. Conversations about Pongwiffy’s clothing never got anywhere. She knew. She’d tried.
‘What’s in the chest, then?’ Pongwiffy pointed to the huge receptacle blocking Sharkadder’s bit of aisle.
‘My make-up, if you must know,’ Sharkadder said defensively. ‘And Dudley’s things. His cushion and his catnip mouse. And his fish heads.’
She smiled fondly down at Dead Eye Dudley, who was crouched on her lap, glaring up at Hugo with an expression of feline menace that would curdle cheese. Hugo was retaliating with a Hamster version which would strip paint.