More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  The tiny curtains jerked open and Mr Punch bobbed up. He was a particularly battered, creased Mr Punch, who looked as though he had been used at some point to clean somebody’s bicycle.

  ‘Hello, boys and girls,’ he squeaked. ‘I’m Mr Punch, I am. Will you be my friend?’

  ‘Not likely,’ shouted Ratsnappy rudely. ‘Catch me being friends with a moth-eaten old glove puppet!’

  ‘And this is my wife, Judy,’ squeaked Mr Punch, ignoring the interruption. ‘Say hello to the boys and girls, Judy.’

  Up bobbed Judy with a tiny bundle of rags in her stiff arms.

  ‘Hello, everybody!’ she squealed. ‘I’m Judy and this is my baby. Mr Punch is going to look after it for me while I go fishing. Will you help look after the baby, boys and girls?’

  ‘We certainly will!’ cried Ratsnappy, Scrofula and Macabre, sitting up and looking important. It wasn’t often they got asked to look after people’s children.

  Judy tossed the ragged bundle to Punch, who dropped it. Immediately a high-pitched squalling rent the air.

  ‘Naughty baby,’ scolded Punch, picking up the bundle and giving it a rough shake. ‘I’m going to have to smack you, I am!’

  ‘Did ye see that? He dropped it!’ howled Macabre, unable to believe her eyes. ‘You leave that wee babby alone, you tyrant you!’

  ‘Smack, smack, smack,’ carried on Punch blithely, bashing the small bundle on the edge of the stage. ‘That’s what I do to naughty babies. Smack, smack, smack. And now I’m going to throw you in the dustbin, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to thr—’

  But he didn’t get any further. The outraged babysitters leapt to their feet and charged the booth. It collapsed on top of the Tree Demon, who gave a small, surprised yelp. Still wearing his puppets, he crawled out from beneath the wreckage. The watching audience cheered and clapped as Ratsnappy and Scrofula sat on him. Macabre seized Mr Punch, ripped his nose off and held it up in triumph. This was better than a puppet show.

  ‘Come on, Pong!’ shouted Scrofula cheerfully. ‘Pass over that seaweed and help us slime him!’

  ‘Not just now, thanks. Hugo and I are off to check out the pier,’ Pongwiffy told her. Sliming the Tree Demon would indeed be fun, but right now the delights of the pier called and her Magic coin – the one that always came back to her – the one she didn’t hand in to Mrs Molotoff – was burning a hole in her pocket.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Pier

  To get to the pier, Pongwiffy and Hugo had to walk along the promenade, which was lined with posh hotels and the better class of guest house. Every so often, benches were placed beneath shady trees for the convenience of visitors who preferred to view the pebbly beach from a safe distance. One such bench contained Witch Greymatter, seated next to a huge pile of dictionaries. Both she and Speks were frowning over an old copy of The Daily Miracle. They had been stuck for days on One Across, Words spoken by backward giant (3,2,2,3). They didn’t even look up as Pongwiffy and Hugo went by.

  At the entrance to the pier, they came across Sourmuddle and Snoop, who were busily buying up the best part of the Souvenir stand. Both sported Kiss Me Quick hats and were dripping with keyrings, plastic sharks’ teeth necklaces and small rubber octopuses on elastic.

  ‘Hello there, Pongwiffy!’ called Sourmuddle, waving excitedly. ‘Come and see what we’ve bought! This is the life, eh? I’m jolly glad I came up with the idea of a holiday. Are you walking along the pier? We’ll join you. You can buy me a hot dog. It’s the only thing I haven’t tried yet.’

  ‘I shall be delighted, Sourmuddle,’ said Pongwiffy. And they linked arms and, with Snoop and Hugo in tow, set out along the decking.

  The pier, just as Pongwiffy thought, was indeed where the action was. Merry crowds of holidaymakers thronged its length, busily scoffing candyfloss and ice cream and toffee apples and sampling the various attractions.

  There was the Haunted House, which Sourmuddle insisted on visiting. That proved a disappointment, mainly because all the Ghosts fled the minute they walked in. Witches are Witches, even on holiday, and Ghosts know when they’re beaten.

  ‘I’ve seen scarier things under my sofa,’ observed Pongwiffy, and everyone agreed.

  Mystic GNoreen, Fortune Teller, was the next attraction. She turned out to be a lipsticky Gnome in big earrings whom Pongwiffy thought she recognised.

  ‘I know you,’ said Pongwiffy accusingly. ‘You’re the same one that turned my shed into a Fortune-Telling Booth that time at Hallowe’en, when the riff-raff came and raided my Dump!’

  ‘No I’m not,’ lied Mystic GNoreen, who was. ‘That was my identical twin, Mystic GNorma. I’m Mystic GNoreen. Either cross my palm with silver or get out of my tent, Pongwiffy.’

  ‘Shall I do it?’ said Pongwiffy to Sourmuddle, flexing her fingers dangerously. ‘I’ve got a nasty spell just dying to get out. Just say the word, Sourmuddle, and I’ll zap her!’

  ‘Certainly not. No Magic while we’re on holiday, remember?’ scolded Sourmuddle. Fuming, Pongwiffy had to follow her out. However, in doing so, she managed accidentally-on-purpose to trip over one of the guy ropes, bringing the booth crashing down on top of the unfortunate GNoreen, who said quite a few unmystic things. So that was all right.

  On they went to the Rifle Range, where Sourmuddle won seventeen goldfish, a china wildebeest, a cuddly squid and a scale model of a Transylvanian castle.

  ‘And I didn’t even have to fire it!’ she boasted, beaming at the white-faced stallholder. ‘All I did was wave the rifle in his face and he gave me all these prizes!’

  Next came the Hall of Mirrors.

  ‘Funny,’ said Pongwiffy, standing before one that made her look like a sack suspended on scaffolding poles. ‘I don’t remember looking like this. When did my legs go like this, Hugo?’

  But Hugo wasn’t listening. He had found a mirror to his liking. It made him look every bit as big and fierce as he felt himself to be on the inside.

  ‘Look, mistress!’ he squealed, sticking his chest out, sucking in his stomach and flexing his pea-sized biceps. ‘Zis is ’ow an ’Amster look to a snail! Scary, huh?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Pongwiffy, still worried about her legs. ‘Actually, I’ve had enough of mirrors. Come on, Sourmuddle. Let’s get that hot dog.’

  But Sourmuddle and Snoop were speechless with laughter, falling about and pointing at each other’s reflections. Sourmuddle was all chin and knees and Snoop’s horns were five times bigger than his body.

  ‘Come on, Hugo,’ said Pongwiffy restlessly. ‘Let’s see what else there is.’

  But Hugo was busy posing. They were all having a wonderful time, so Pongwiffy left them to it and wandered back out into the sunshine.

  Outside the Pier Pavilion, a crowd had gathered around the billboard advertising the Summer Spektacular.

  ‘Who’s starring?’ Pongwiffy asked a large Zombie, who was shuffling away after having stared at the poster for a good half-hour.

  ‘How should I know?’ said the Zombie rudely. ‘Think I can read or something? Go and see for yerself.’

  There was nothing else for it. Pongwiffy took a deep breath, stuck out her bony elbows and began to force her way to the front of the crowd. Summer Spektacular, eh? This sounded interesting.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Convention

  ‘Disgusting, I call it,’ remarked Frank the Foreteller, his telescope trained on the beach below. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed. Ought to be a law against it. There ought to be signs. NO WITCHES ON THE BEACH. The place is crawling with them. You should see what they’re doing to the Punch and Judy Demon!’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Fred the Flameraiser, holding out his hand.

  The Wizards were stretched out on sunbeds on the balcony of the Magician’s Retreat – a lurid pink, turreted, teetering-on-the-edge-of-the-cliff edifice of the type that Wizards go for. They had taken over the entire top-floor suite, where they proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as they would hav
e been in the Clubhouse back home. In fact, they could almost have been in the Clubhouse back home. The only difference was that here they tended to lie on sunbeds on the balcony rather than just sit in overstuffed armchairs indoors.

  The Wizards loved the balcony. It was just up their street. Not only did they have a bird’s-eye view of the disgraceful goings-on on the beach below, but it also provided the perfect place to snatch forty winks. Dozing on the balcony came after a disgracefully late, gargantuan breakfast served on silver platters in the grand dining room on the ground floor.

  Also on the ground floor was the Conference Room, where the Convention was taking place – but the Wizards studiously ignored that. After the huge breakfast, they would wipe their beards, collect their daily papers and troop back to the lift, stonily ignoring the queue of keen, brainy-looking Convention-goers from elsewhere, who took everything seriously. Not so the Wizards. Let others read out learned papers and discuss the relative properties of invisibility and the ins and outs of a pentagram. Their balcony called, and to the balcony they must go.

  All except Ronald. Ronald was bitterly disappointed. He had spent long days and nights working on a paper entitled ‘Are Pointy Hats a Good Thing?’ He had hoped to read it out. In fact, he had been as good as promised he would be able to read it out – but so far, to his great dismay, none of the Wizards had shown any desire to even stick their noses inside the Conference Room, let alone listen to Ronald read his paper.

  All they did was lie about on the balcony all day, snoozing and looking through telescopes and demanding room service and complaining about their fellow guests (whom they considered themselves a cut above) and the shocking behaviour of the merry holidaymakers on the beach. And then shuffle off to bed at nightfall, when all the fun was beginning. Or, at least, Ronald imagined that there would be some fun beginning somewhere, outside the constraints of the stultifyingly boring Magician’s Retreat. At night, when the lights began to twinkle, the faraway pier looked quite festive.

  ‘What’s the matter, young Ronald? Haven’t you got a sunbed?’ asked Frank the Foreteller slyly.

  ‘No,’ said Ronald sulkily. ‘They keep forgetting to bring another one up.’

  That was another thing. He didn’t have a sunbed. It was just like in the Clubhouse back home, where nobody had bothered to provide him with a chair.

  Or a locker.

  ‘Shouldn’t we go down to the Conference Room?’ he asked desperately. ‘I was rather hoping I might read my paper this morning . . .’

  ‘All in good time, young Ronald, all in good time,’ smirked Frank the Foreteller. ‘Ah me, the keenness of youth, eh? Ah well, he’ll learn, he’ll learn.’

  ‘But I thought we were supposed to be here to work. I thought that was the idea of a Convention. That’s what you said. You said we would mingle with learned people and have intelligent discussions.’

  ‘Did we?’ said Fred the Flameraiser. ‘I don’t remember saying that. I thought we were here for the food.’

  ‘What about a stroll, then?’ persisted Ronald. ‘We could at least have a dignified saunter along the pier, couldn’t we? Get a bit of exercise?’

  ‘What, with all those Witches crawling around? Talk sense, boy,’ scoffed Frank the Foreteller. ‘I’ll have that telescope back now, Fred.’

  ‘I rather think I’ll ring for room service, you know,’ said Dave the Druid lazily. ‘I fancy another platter of those sausages before lunch. Apart from that, I don’t feel up to doing another thing today. Did you hear that awful Goblin music coming from over the headland last night? Quite ruined my night’s sleep.’

  With a sigh, Ronald turned and leaned on the balcony railing. The sea looked particularly tempting this morning. Far out on the horizon, a tiny, wild figure with bats flapping around her head went zooming along on the end of a long rope attached to a small red boat which was going much too fast for its own good. (Gaga had discovered the joys of water sports.)

  Jolly, distant cries rang up from the beach below where a couple of Witches were paddling at the water’s edge. Paddling! Something he’d never done. Sun glinted on the frothy little waves caressing the pebbles. Further along the beach there was some sort of interesting incident going on involving, as far as he could make out, several Witches, some seaweed and a Punch and Judy Demon. And here he was, muffled up in itchy, uncomfortably hot robes, stuck on a stifling balcony without so much as a sunbed.

  ‘Could I borrow your telescope for a moment?’ Ronald asked Frank the Foreteller.

  ‘No,’ said Frank the Foreteller.

  It was all too much.

  GOBLIN NEWSFLASH 2

  We interrupt this story again to bring you the latest Goblin news. Against all odds, the Gaggle have at last reached the lower reaches of the Misty Mountains and have begun to toil up the first slope. So far, they have managed to fall down three ravines. A short while ago, Sproggit slipped between the slats of a rope bridge and fell into the raging torrent below, where he survived by hanging on to the tail of a beaver. Plugugly has stubbed his toe badly on a BEWARE OF AVALANCHES sign. There is a storm threatening, and they have run out of nettle sandwiches. There is now some doubt whether they will ever reach their goal.

  That is the end of the Newsflash.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Chance Meeting

  Scott Sinister (or Spot Snitser as he was now known) had spent a rotten night in the stifling cupboard the theatre management called a dressing room. Groaning, he unfolded creaking limbs and hauled himself up from the musty pile of old stage curtains which served for a bed.

  Blearily, he examined his haggard features in a small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He looked terrible. This was no life for a superstar. He felt quite faint. Food, that was what he needed. Glumly he reached into his cloak and carefully counted the few small coins that were all that remained of his vast fortune. Just enough for one more hot dog. After that, there would be no more food until his first pay cheque at the end of the week. If he survived that long.

  Not like Lulu, who was rolling in money. Lulu, who right now was most probably tucking into a hugely overpriced breakfast in her suite at the Ritz.

  It wasn’t fair! It simply wasn’t fair! He had more talent in his little toenail than she had in her whole body. If only he had the chance to prove himself, just once more. He’d show them! He could pull himself back up again, he knew he could. If only . . .

  But this wasn’t getting him anywhere. First things first. If he was going to make it to opening night, he had to keep his strength up.

  With a sigh, he opened his battered case and took out a large red false beard. This morning, he was in no fit state to face his public. Better to go unrecognised than to have to run the gauntlet of the sneers and put-downs he had recently had to endure. He pulled the beard elastic over his head and tugged the hood of his cape well down over his head. There. What a master of disguise he was. His best friend wouldn’t recognise him now. Not that he had any friends these days.

  He cautiously opened the door, peered to left and right, scurried down the dark corridor that led to the stage door – and stepped out, blinking, into bright sunshine.

  The pier was crowded. It must be later than he thought. A party of Skeletons in shorts nudged each other and pointed with sticks of bright pink candyfloss as he emerged from the stage door.

  ‘Look at that scruffy old tramp. Whatever is Sludgehaven coming to?’ he heard one of them say sniffily as he scurried past.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed by the main entrance to the theatre a tall, pointy hat sticking out from the crowd who had gathered around the poster on which his misspelt name appeared in such disgracefully small letters. Scott kept his head well down and hurried by. Tall pointy hats meant Witches. He didn’t like Witches. Witches meant trouble. It had been a Witch who had caused all the trouble between him and Lulu that time. What was her name again? Wiffsmelly? Fugstinky?

  He headed straight for the hot-dog stand.

 
; ‘A hot dog with honions, please,’ said Scott, in a high, nasal, disguised voice. He felt quite pleased with himself. This was where the actor in him came out.

  ‘Right away, meester Seenister,’ said Spag with a leer. ‘By the way, I like-a the beard.’

  ‘Just hurry it up, will you?’ growled Scott. A queue was forming behind. It made him feel uncomfortable. He couldn’t cope with crowds these days. He just wanted to get his breakfast and scuttle off back to the sanctuary of his broom cupboard.

  He turned to face the sea with a huge sigh – and at that moment a mischievous little sea breeze swooped down and snatched at his false beard. The sudden air pressure proved too much for the flimsy elastic, and the beard flipped off his face and blew away. It rolled a short way along the decking, then stopped. In a panic, Scott ran after it.

  ‘Oi!’ came Spag’s voice behind him. ‘You wanna hot dog, you give-a me the dough, huh?’

  ‘Be right with you!’ called Scott, making a grab for the beard. He almost had it but it took off again, this time rolling towards the railing! Another gust, and it would be over the edge and into the sea below. Scott gave a little sob and threw himself full-length on the decking in a final, desperate attempt at recovery, knowing as he did so that he would be too late . . .

  But fate intervened. The escaped beard was brought up short by a pair of disreputable boots. Suddenly, he became aware of a certain smell. A smell he recognised.

  ‘Well, badness me!’ said a familiar voice. ‘A runaway beard. Whatever next?’

  Slowly, Scott looked up and found himself staring into the face of . . .

  ‘P-Pongwiffy?’ he said weakly.

  ‘The very same,’ twittered Pongwiffy, coming over all fluttery. ‘Scott, dearest, we meet again! What a lovely surprise!’

  ‘PONGWIFFY! AAAAAAH!’ screamed Scott. And bolted.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Talk about Red