More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘Sharky! Wake up! You’ll never believe who I’ve just seen on the pier! Scott! Scott Sinister!’

  ‘Mmm? Wha—?’

  With a struggle, Sharkadder awoke from a terrible dream in which she was lying on a bed of coals being blasted by hairdryer-wielding Goblins in a cave that was heated by a thousand furnaces.

  ‘I said you’ll never believe who . . . oh my badness, Sharky! Look at your nose. Talk about red. Good thing I came back when I did.’

  ‘Really?’ mumbled Sharkadder. ‘Must have dozed off there for a minute or two. Is it really that bad?’

  She sat up groggily and crossed her eyes in an effort to inspect the offending appendage – which had, indeed, caught the sun. That’s the trouble with long sharp noses like Sharkadder’s. They catch things. The sun. Colds. Even flies sometimes.

  ‘It’s sort of pulsing,’ Pongwiffy told her. ‘Redly pulsing. That’s the best way I can describe it. I’d say that if Rudolph ever retires, you’re in with a fighting chance, wouldn’t you, Hugo?’

  Sharkadder scrabbled frantically for her mirror.

  ‘I wouldn’t look. You won’t like it,’ Pongwiffy warned her.

  Sharkadder found her mirror and anxiously inspected her reflection. She gave a horrified little wail.

  ‘She doesn’t like it,’ Pongwiffy told Hugo.

  ‘Does it ’urt?’ Hugo wanted to know.

  Gently, ever so gently, Sharkadder touched the very tip of her nose with a finger. With a howl of agony, she leapt to her feet and fled to the nearest rock pool.

  ‘It hurts,’ chorused Pongwiffy and Hugo.

  They stood and watched as Sharkadder lowered her unfortunate appendage into the water. There was a hiss and a cloud of steam. Small crabs and fish fled in panic as the water began to bubble.

  ‘Ahhh. Thad’s bedder,’ said Sharkadder, speaking with difficulty because her nose was in the water. ‘Whad was id you were sayig, Pogwiffy? Aboud Scod Sidister?’

  ‘He’s here! In Sludgehaven! I saw him on the pier! But, oh Sharky, it wasn’t my Scott. He’s but a shadow of his former self. You’d weep to see how he’s come down in the world. I knew him right away, of course, being his biggest fan. Even before his beard blew away.’

  ‘Beard? Whad beard? Whad are you talking aboud?’ bubbled Sharkadder.

  ‘He was in disguise, Sharky! He can’t bear to face his public. He’s too ashamed. That’s why he ran away from me, of course.’

  ‘Whad d’you mead, id disguise? Whad’s Scod Sidister doig id Sludgehaved id disguise?’

  ‘He’s in the Summer Spektacular. I saw the poster. Bottom of the bill, with his precious name spelt wrong. And guess who’s starring?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Sharkadder, coming up for air.

  ‘That stuck-up starlet Lulu Lamarre, that’s who! The one who was hanging around Scott the time he came to judge our Talent Contest, remember? I got rid of her pretty quick. I said to Scott, “You don’t want to go hanging around with her sort,” I said. “You can do better for yourself than that.” ’

  ‘Meaning you, I suppose. I think I’ll go back to the guest house now, Pongwiffy. I’m not feeling too well,’ said poor Sharkadder, soaking her towel in the rock pool and draping it over her nose.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Pongwiffy, putting her arm around her. ‘I’ll buy you an ice cream cone on the way. You can stick your nose in it.’

  On the promenade, a crowd had formed at the foot of the steps leading up to the Ritz. Word had got round that Luscious Lulu Lamarre, dazzling star of stage and screen, was about to emerge for her first photocall of the day, and all her admirers had turned out in force, armed with cameras and autograph books. Several of the Skeletons were wearing WE LUV LULU T-shirts and a large Troll was sheepishly clutching a bunch of pansies.

  ‘Look,’ said Pongwiffy, grabbing Sharkadder’s arm and pointing. ‘What’s happening over there? Somebody important must be staying at the Ritz. Let’s go and see who it is.’

  ‘I don’t want to. I don’t care. My nose hurts. I feel dizzy. I want to lie down in a darkened igloo,’ moaned Sharkadder.

  Just at that moment, a cheer went up from the assembled crowd, and flashlights exploded as Lulu Lamarre stepped out from the doors and greeted her public with a toss of her curls and a cry of ‘Dahlings!’

  Hot on her heels came a short, portly Genie wearing a rather odd ensemble of too-small suit, red turban and traditional curly-toed Genie-type slippers. On his left lapel he sported a large badge. It said ALI PALI – BUSINESS MANAGER TO THE STARS.

  ‘Luscious Lulu Lamarre, ladies and gentlemen!’ he cried, waving his arm at Lulu, who was fluttering her eyelashes and blowing kisses to her cheering fans. ‘Opening tomorrow night in the Summer Spektacular! Get your tickets today!’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ gasped Pongwiffy. ‘It’s her! It’s that Lulu! Look at her showing off – it’s disgraceful! And if that sneaky Ali Pali hasn’t gone and made himself her manager! Isn’t it possible to go anywhere these days without that Genie turning up?’

  (It should be mentioned here that Pongwiffy has had dealings with Ali Pali before. Unpleasant dealings, involving treachery and double-crossing and loss of face. Suffice it to say that, where Ali Pali is concerned, Pongwiffy is not keen.)

  ‘Let’s go,’ begged Sharkadder miserably. ‘Take me home, Pong, please. I’ve got sunstroke.’

  ‘All right. I can’t take any more of this anyway. That ought to be Scott up there. He’s the real star. It shouldn’t be allowed. Somebody ought to do something about it. And I know just the right person.’

  ‘Do you? Who?’ asked Sharkadder.

  ‘Somebody who cares about him. Somebody who still believes in his great talent. Somebody with enough brains to come up with a brilliant plan to save his career and put his name back up in lights, where it belongs.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me,’ said Pongwiffy.

  ‘I was horribly afraid you were going to say that,’ sighed Sharkadder.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Breakfasts

  Breakfast in Ocean View was a subdued affair. Everyone sat in uncomfortable silence, chipping away at rock-hard boiled eggs under the stony gaze of Mrs Molotoff, who stalked up and down like a prison wardress, pouring cups of weak tea from a large brown teapot.

  The only time anyone spoke was when she left the room to shout at Cyril in the kitchen. That was the signal for a bitter chorus of complaints.

  ‘Is this all we get?’ hissed Scrofula. ‘We should complain, Sourmuddle. We really should.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Sourmuddle, sipping her tea and smacking her lips with appreciation. ‘Lovely cup of tea, that. Eat your egg, Scrofula, and stop your moaning.’

  ‘I think I’ve broken a tooth,’ complained Sludgegooey. ‘It was my last one too,’ she added sadly.

  ‘Barry doesn’t like eggs,’ insisted Scrofula. ‘It’s a very offensive breakfast to birds. Isn’t it, Barry?’

  ‘Ah wanted porridge,’ grumbled Macabre. ‘Ah need porridge. She said it wasnae on the menu. Noo on the menu! Porridge!’

  ‘Neither’s molten lava,’ moaned Snoop. Sourmuddle gave him a sharp glance. ‘Sorry, Mistress,’ he mumbled, ‘but you know what I’m like if I don’t get my cup of lava in the mornings.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ moaned Filth the Fiend, another great lava-drinker. ‘Lava gives me rhythm, man.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m starving!’ announced Ratsnappy crossly. ‘In fact, I’m going to ask for toast. I’m going to say, “Please, Marm, I want some toast.” Like that Gulliver Twine.’

  ‘Oliver Twist,’ corrected Greymatter, who was well read.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare, Ratsnappy!’ gasped Bendyshanks, eyes round with excitement. ‘You rebel, you.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ argued Ratsnappy. ‘Can I, Sourmuddle? Can I ask for some more?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Sourmuddle briskly. ‘The menu says egg or toast. Not both. It’s not
Done to ask for toast.’

  There was a united sigh. Once Sourmuddle got a bee in her bonnet there was no budging her.

  ‘I wish I was having breakfast with Pongwiffy out in her tent,’ mourned Sludgegooey. ‘Sharkadder is. They’re having sausages. I smelt them. Now, that’s what you call a breakfast.’

  ‘And what do you call a breakfast, pray?’ enquired a steely voice, making everyone jump. Mrs Molotoff stood in the doorway.

  ‘A nice, exceedingly hard-boiled egg,’ said Sourmuddle firmly. ‘Absolutely delicious, and so filling. Isn’t it, everyone?’

  Glumly, everyone agreed it was delicious.

  Out in the tent, Sharkadder paused with a sausage halfway to her lips. Her poor nose was a sorry sight after the excesses of the day before. Even a night spent submerged in a bowl of ice cubes had done little to dim its ruddy glow. Luckily, you don’t eat with your nose, and Sharkadder still had her appetite.

  ‘You’re joking!’ she gasped.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I told you I’d think of a brilliant plan. We were up all night talking about it and making preparations, weren’t we, Hugo?’

  ‘Ve vere,’ agreed Hugo with a yawn, adding, ‘Vell, you did all ze talkink. I did all ze vork. See my eyes? Zey gone all peenk.’

  ‘They’re always pink,’ growled Dudley, looking up from a corner where he was worrying a sausage. ‘Nasty little pink eyes. All ’Amsters ’ave got ’em.’

  ‘Oh ya?’ bristled Hugo. ‘Since ven does a vun-eyed fleabag become optical expert, huh?’

  ‘Pet,’ retaliated Dudley with venom.

  ‘Who you callink pet?’

  ‘You. Pet, pet, pet.’

  ‘Hear zat, Mistress? ’E call me pet!’

  ‘Be quiet, you two,’ ordered Pongwiffy. ‘This is no time for petty squabbles. Sharky and I are discussing my brilliant plan.’

  ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ scoffed Sharkadder.

  ‘We, you mean,’ said Pongwiffy.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Not me. You’re not involving me. Not this time.’

  ‘Oh, but Sharky, you’ve got to help! We’re doing this for Scott, remember. I’ll buy you a lifetime’s supply of make-up! There, I can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘No,’ said Sharkadder.

  ‘I’ll clean your boots for the rest of the year.’

  ‘No,’ said Sharkadder.

  ‘I’ll let you have the window seat on the way home.’

  ‘No,’ said Sharkadder.

  ‘I’ll have that sausage back, then,’ said Pongwiffy slyly, holding her hand out.

  ‘Oh – all right,’ said Sharkadder sullenly. ‘I suppose I’ll help. If I must.’

  Everyone has their price.

  In the Magician’s Retreat, the Wizards were also getting stuck into sausages. Great, heaped, greasy platters of them, served by creaking waiters. There was healthy muesli as an alternative, but the Wizards ignored that. Well, Gerald the Just had tried a small bowlful once, just to give it a fair try – but everyone noticed he went back to sausages the next day.

  ‘Anyone seen young Ronald this morning?’ asked Frank the Foreteller, chewing away. Teasing Ronald was a popular breakfast sport. It went with the sausages. It got the day off to a good start.

  ‘Can’t say I have,’ said Dave the Druid, sucking his fingers.

  ‘Probably in his room working on his paper,’ suggested Fred the Flameraiser, tapping his pipe out on his napkin, which immediately caught fire. Everyone gave a little chuckle. Ronald’s paper was a constant source of amusement.

  ‘Perhaps he’s not feeling well,’ said the voice of Alf the Invisible. A sausage floated off his plate, hovered a moment, then vanished into thin air. ‘Perhaps one of us should go and look.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said everyone vaguely. But nobody did.

  GOBLIN NEWSFLASH 3

  We interrupt this story again to bring you the latest news on the Goblins. They too are currently eating breakfast. Hog, Eyesore and Stinkwart have lit a small fire and are heating up a lovely bowlful of nice, appetising moss. Slopbucket and Lardo are arguing over a small spray of berries, which both claim to have seen first. Sproggit has wrested a nut from a passing squirrel and is vainly attempting to crack it by jumping up and down on it while Hog holds it steady. Plugugly has found a toadstool and is nibbling at it delicately, trying to make it last.

  But things could be worse. They have successfully weathered the storm and the avalanche. They have made it to the very top of the Misty Mountains. From now on, it’s downhill all the way. On the horizon, they can see the clear blue sweep of the sea – and last night, Plugugly swore he could almost see the faraway lights of Gobboworld.

  The dream is within their grasp.

  That is the end of the Newsflash.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ronald’s Paddle

  Ronald wasn’t working on his paper. Neither was he in bed sick. Ronald, in fact, was about to fulfil a lifetime’s ambition. He was standing at the water’s edge on the deserted beach, about to have his first-ever paddle.

  Things had really been getting on his nerves back at the hotel. The constant round of the three Bs (breakfast, balcony and bed) was more than he could take. His paper on pointy hats still languished in his bedside drawer, unread. He hadn’t set foot in the Conference Room because nobody would go with him and he didn’t like to go in on his own. As far as Ronald was concerned, the Convention he had been so looking forward to was a complete washout.

  All this made him even more determined to paddle. All right, so it wasn’t a Wizardly sort of activity – but if he was careful and sneaked out early and did it when nobody else was about, who was going to know? Anyway, he was past caring. He was going to defy everybody and dip his big, pink, flapping feet in the briny if it killed him. Even if it was flying in the face of tradition.

  He had risen at sunrise, sneaked out the back way through the kitchens and hurried down the steep cliff path which led from the Magician’s Retreat to the empty beach. Heart pitter-pattering with guilty excitement, he had hidden behind the breakwater and furtively removed his Hat of Knowledge, his Robe of Mystery and his Cloak of Darkness, hiding them carefully under a large stone. This, of course, was against the rules – for, as everyone knows, A Wizard and His Gear are Never Parted, on the grounds that once you lose the clobber you lose the dignity.

  Some while later he had emerged self-consciously clad in a pair of large, bright yellow shorts which he had secretly purchased from a souvenir shop the day before (under the pretext of popping out for a pencil sharpener). He had loved the look of them in the window, but now he had them on, he wasn’t so sure. He had a niggling feeling they didn’t do a lot for his knees. Draped around his neck was a towel emblazoned with the words HOTEL PROPERTY – DO NOT REMOVE. He felt horribly naked.

  The sea was a long way out, and it had taken him ages to pick his way over the millions of excruciatingly sharp pebbles and acres of smelly, slippery seaweed that lay between him and the water’s edge. There was a chilly wind too, which blew up his shorts most unpleasantly.

  But at last, he made it. Arms clutched across his skinny chest, he balanced stork-like on one thin white leg and dipped an experimental toe in the water.

  Brrr! It was freezing. Still, he had set out to paddle – and paddle he jolly well would. At least he’d have one happy memory to take home with him at the end of it all.

  Shivering, he took a deep breath and waded out into the cold grey water.

  Far behind him, on the beach, unobserved by Ronald, two small Troll children overturned the large stone and made off with his clothes, just for a laugh.

  And that was only the first bad thing that happened.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Getting Rid of Lulu

  Lulu Lamarre was seated before her dressing table mirror, trying to decide which wig to wear. She had risen late, after a luxurious breakfast in bed. That’s one of the advantages of being a superstar and staying in the top
hotels. You can have breakfast in bed any time you like. You can order what you like too and nobody will bat an eyelid. Lulu had chosen chips, tuna fish, chocolate cake and a cherry float with a side order of chutney. And very nice it had been too.

  Now then. Which wig? After a bit of thought, Lulu decided on the long, blonde curly one. She pulled it on, fluffed it up, batted her eyelashes and smiled complacently at her reflection.

  Lulu had been doing a lot of complacent smiling recently. She had come a long way since the early days when she was a mere extra, hanging around the edges of show business. Her career was really beginning to take off. Lulu Lamarre was fast becoming a household name. Just one more well-paid film, that’s all it would take, and she would be able to buy herself that rather nice holiday retreat on the other side of Witchway Wood. The one that used to be owned by Scott Sinister, her ex-boyfriend.

  Ha! That’d show him.

  There came a discreet tap at the bedroom door.

  ‘Come in,’ purred Lulu huskily, fluffing up her frilly robe and adopting a glamorous pose.

  The door opened, and in came a creaking old waiter, bearing a grubby envelope on a silver tray.

  ‘A letter for you, Miss Lamarre. Handed in at reception early this morning.’

  ‘For me? Oh, how adorable!’ cried Lulu, snatching it up. ‘I wonder who can be writing to me? One of my many fans, I suppose. All right, servant, you can clear off now.’

  Eagerly she tore it open, and read:

  Dear Miss Lamarre,

  It has come to my attenshun that you are starring in the Summer Spektacular at the Pavillion. i am a Millyonair film prodooser and rite now i am holydaying on my fabulus lukshoory yachght yoght yot in the next bay. i wood very much lik you to star in my neckst blokbuster. i will pay you a lot. you will be sucksessfull beyond yore wildest dreems. plees cum to the old jetty in the Bote Yard at ten o’clock sharp. you will be piked up by my trusty old boteman who will row you out to my yaucht yahat yot and we can diskus a skreen test over a glass of champayn shampagn shampain wine.