by Kaye Umansky
‘Does it mean mixing with the riff-raff, though? That’s what I want to know,’ enquired Alf the Invisible anxiously. A scone laden with jam and cream rose from his plate, hovered a moment, then vanished in a puff of crumbs. Several of the crumbs remained hanging in mid-air, obviously caught on his invisible beard.
‘Certainly not. I’ve spoken to the driver and arranged for us to be picked up first. We get the plum choice of seats,’ explained Dave the Druid.
‘That sounds very fair,’ nodded Gerald the Just. But Alf the Invisible wasn’t reassured.
‘Why do we have to go anywhere? What’s wrong with sitting on our balcony?’
‘The maid wants to clean it,’ explained Dave the Druid.
‘But I thought we could start a little fire up there today,’ mourned Fred the Flameraiser. ‘I’ve got my magnifying glass all ready.’
‘I just thought we should perhaps get out and about a little,’ explained Dave the Druid. ‘We don’t have to move or anything. Just sit in a coach and watch the scenery go by. And I’ve arranged for the hotel to pack us a hamper. Just a light snack. Couple of sides of ham, a cold chicken or two, some sandwiches, tomatoes, a few eggs, pork pies, sausage rolls, a big cake, fizzy lemonade – that sort of thing. Just to keep us going until supper.’
‘Oh well,’ said Alf the Invisible, sounding relieved. ‘If there’s going to be a hamper . . .’
‘I suppose we should let young Ronald read out his paper at some point,’ said Frank the Foreteller, helping himself to his fourth scone. ‘I could do with a good laugh.’
‘Did anyone check his room, by the way?’ asked Fred the Flameraiser. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen him all day, come to think of it.’
‘Sulking, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Frank the Foreteller with satisfaction, spooning on lashings of cream.
‘Well, somebody had better tell him about the Mystery Tour,’ said Dave the Druid. ‘He wouldn’t want to miss that. He’s been complaining the whole time that we never do anything. Go on, Fred. Pop up and give the lad his ticket.’
‘Mmm,’ said Fred vaguely. ‘Later. After lunch. Er – does anyone want that last scone?’ Everyone did. So they ordered some more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Scott Gets His Chance
Scott Sinister was in his dressing room. In fact, he hadn’t dared move from it since the previous day when he had run into Pongwiffy, of all people! Whatever was she doing in Sludgehaven? Wherever Pongwiffy went, trouble followed, He knew that. So what if she was the one remaining loyal fan he had left in the whole world? She was the sort of fan he could do without. Even on a hot day.
Scott gave a little shudder as he recalled that heart-stopping moment of the day before when they had come face to face. Luckily, he had escaped before she could engage him in conversation – or even worse – aaaah – kiss him!! One look at her dazzling smile of greeting had been enough for instinct to take over. He had uttered a low, rising, wobbling wail, taken to his heels and fled to the safety of his broom cupboard, where he spent the rest of the day and the whole of the night quaking under a pile of curtains, convinced she would seek him out.
But she hadn’t. And now it was morning – and tonight was opening night. Scott was nothing if not a trouper. The theatre was in his veins. As his mum always boasted, his very first baby sentence (announced imperiously from the potty) had not been the usual ‘I want my eggy.’ It had been the far more impressive utterance, ‘The show must go on.’
There was something about being in a theatre that aroused all the ancient actorly feelings. The smell of greasepaint, combined with the distant sounds of an orchestra tuning up, revived him as effectively as smelling salts. Right now, he was sitting before his cracked mirror applying the finishing touches to his make-up. When he had finally got it to his satisfaction, he carefully combed his hair, took his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.
There. That was an improvement. Time now for some soothing deep breathing. In – out – in – out.
The breathing helped a lot. In fact, he was beginning to feel much better. So much so that he felt ready to attempt his voice exercises.
‘Mee mee meeeeeeee,’ sang Scott. ‘Mee mee mee ma mee moo may!’
There came the sound of pattering footsteps, followed by an urgent knock on the door.
‘Who’s in there, please?’ came the voice of the call boy.
‘Meeeeeeee!’ trilled Scott.
‘Is that you, Mr Sinister?’
‘Of course it is,’ snapped Scott. ‘I’m trying to do my voice exercises. What do you want? I’m not receiving any visitors, mind.’
‘You haven’t got any, Mr Sinister. It’s not that. It’s Miss Lamarre. She’s gone missing. Not in there with you, is she?’
‘Of course not,’ growled Scott. ‘How can she be with me? There’s only enough oxygen in here for one.’
‘It’s just that she’s late for rehearsal. She was due here hours ago and she hasn’t shown up. The orchestra’s threatening to pack up and go home.’
‘Well, what do you expect when you engage amateurs?’ said Scott coldly. ‘Kindly go away and leave me in peace. There are only a few hours to curtain-up. I want to be alone. I need to get into role.’
There was a short pause, and the footsteps pattered away.
Scott felt much better. Telling off the call boy had made him feel more important, somehow. He could feel his old confidence flowing back. Perhaps he would go over his act one more time. He needed to be word perfect. His was only a small spot, but at least he’d give it all he’d got.
He fished inside his cloak, and brought out a sheaf of well-thumbed paper. He glanced briefly at the topmost sheet, mouthed a few words under his breath, then deliberately placed the script to one side, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and began.
‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much! Hey! It’s great to be back in good old Sludgehaven again.’ (Pause for applause. Hopefully.) ‘I love the seaside, don’t you? Talking of the sea, have you heard the one about the haddock who robbed a fish bar and was done for salt and battery? And what about the mermaid who . . .’
‘Mr Sinister, sir!’
The call boy was back again.
‘What! What is it!’ roared Scott. ‘Can’t an artiste be left to go over his lines in peace!’
‘It’s Miss Lamarre, sir. They still can’t find her. The Stage Manager’s going potty. He wants to know if you’ll step into the breach.’
There was a startled silence. Then: ‘Could you just repeat that?’ croaked Scott.
He couldn’t believe he had heard properly. Surely it wasn’t true! Could it be, could it really be that his luck had finally turned?
The call boy took a deep breath.
‘It’s Miss Lamarre, sir. They still can’t find her. The Stage Manager’s going po—’
‘Not the whole of it, idiot! Just the last bit. About stepping into the breach.’
‘The Stage Manager wants you to go on in her place, sir. He’s desperate. Every seat is sold for this evening’s performance, and the star’s missing. Will you do it, Mr Sinister? Will you save the show?’
Well. What would anyone say to a request like that?
For the first time for simply ages, a great smile spread across Scott’s face. He stood, swept his cloak about him and pulled open the door with a flourish.
‘Prepare the main dressing room,’ he said grandly. ‘I am on my way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Mystery Tour
The Wizards were gathered in the foyer of the Magician’s Retreat, waiting for the coach that was to take them on the Mystery Tour. They were all muffled up in case of draughts, and greedily eyeing the enormous hamper containing the light snack which was to fortify them during the excursion. All except the Venerable Harold, who had evidently found the excitement of a Mystery Tour too much to bear and had gone to sleep on a nearby sofa.
‘Are we all here?’ cried Dave the Dr
uid, bustling about with a clipboard. Having organised the trip, he had taken it upon himself to be leader.
They were. All except Alf the Invisible, who couldn’t strictly be described as here, although some floating crumbs and a smear of airborne cream indicated that he was present.
And Ronald, of course. (We know where he is, don’t we? But they didn’t.)
‘I’m still not sure about this,’ moaned Fred the Flameraiser.
‘Well, it’s too late to change your mind now,’ said Dave firmly. ‘Here comes the coach.’
‘Looks like young Ronald’s going to miss all the excitement,’ remarked Frank the Foreteller sadly. ‘Shame, really.’
‘No one bothered to check his room, I suppose?’ enquired Dave the Druid. ‘No? Oh well, too late now. Right, someone pass Harold to the front. We’ll stick him in the back seat, along with the hamper.’
Down on the promenade, a large crowd of Witches and their Familiars were assembled by a sign that said THE MYSTERY TOUR, QUEUE HERE. The entire Coven was present, apart from Pongwiffy, Hugo, Sharkadder and Dudley. Even Bonidle and her Sloth had turned out of bed for this. Gaga was there too, all decked out in snorkel and flippers, carrying a large oil painting entitled ‘The Minstrel Boy’s Revenge’, which she claimed to have won in a paragliding competition.
There was a great deal of excitement and much wild speculation about their possible destination.
‘Ah hope it’s Scotland,’ said Macabre dreamily. ‘Ah’ll pop in for a decent bowl o’ porridge wi’ mah Uncle Fergus. Ah’ve brought mah bagpipes, just in case. He likes a wee tune.’
‘I rather hope it’s somewhere with a decent reference library,’ groaned Greymatter, still doing battle with One Across. So far, she had worn out six pencils and thirteen dictionaries – but still the correct answer eluded her.
‘Somewhere you could get a decent hot meal would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it, Ag?’ remarked Bagaggle longingly.
‘It would, Bag. Old Molotoff’s starvation diet is getting on my nerves.’
This brought a chorus of heartfelt agreement from everybody.
‘Hear hear!’
‘Down with Old Molotoff and her rotten breakfasts, I say!’
‘I sneaked a look over her shoulder into the larder this morning!’ Bendyshanks informed everyone. ‘Stuffed with pies and jelly and cake and stuff, it is. And all we get is eggs. Eggs, eggs, eggs.’
‘Eggsactly!’
‘What I can’t understand is why Sourmuddle’s taking it all in her stride,’ remarked Ratsnappy. ‘She’s always had a good appetite, has Sourmuddle. You’d think she’d be the first to complain.’
‘What’s that? Did I hear my name mentioned?’ demanded Sourmuddle.
‘We were just saying about the breakfasts,’ explained Bendyshanks. ‘We want to complain. We’re all starving.’
‘Really?’ asked Sourmuddle. ‘Snoop and I aren’t. Are we, Snoop?’
‘Ah,’ said Snoop, ‘but that’s because . . .’
He caught Sourmuddle’s eye and stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.
‘That’s because we’re not greedy,’ Sourmuddle finished off for him. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s not Done to complain about food. We’re in a strange place with strange customs. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’
‘I bet the Romans got more to eat than boiled eggs,’ complained Sludgegooey. ‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘in fact, they got loads to eat. I heard that they got so much they couldn’t eat it all, so they’d stick their fingers . . .’
Luckily, more information about the Romans’ famous eating habits was prevented by the timely arrival of the coach.
‘Hey!’ shouted Bendyshanks, jumping up and down. ‘It’s here! Look! It says Mystery Tour on the front!’
‘It’s the same one that brought us! It’s George, look! Bags I the back seat!’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Ratsnappy. ‘I hate to put a damper on things – but aren’t those Wizards I see?’
She was right. They were. A mass of bearded faces, incredulous with horror and topped with pointy hats, were pressed against the glass.
There was immediate consternation.
‘Well, if anyone thinks I’m sharing a coach with a load of Wizards . . .’
‘Look! They’ve got the best seats and all!’
‘What a cheek. How come they got picked up first?’
‘They’ve got a hamper too! Lucky so-and-sos.’
Sourmuddle, as befitted her role of Grandwitch, reacted with dignity. It took more than a coachload of Wizards to unsettle her. Calmly, she picked up her skirts.
‘Come along, girls, best foot forward. We’re not going to let a few Wizards spoil our outing, are we? Open the door, George, we’re coming in!’
The Wizards had indeed taken the best seats. The best seats were towards the back, away from the engine and the draughty door. They muttered and rumbled under their breath as the Witches and Familiars filed in and took their seats in sniffy silence.
‘Pshaw! You see? Riff-raff! I told you!’
‘If I’d known a load of Witches were coming on this trip . . .’
‘They’re bringing animals on, for goodness’ sake. Is that a haggis they’ve got there? And are those bats, do you think?’
‘Whatever is the world coming to?’
‘There should be a law . . .’
Bendyshanks, who was the last one in, treated them all to a stony glare and plumped down heavily on Alf the Invisible’s lap. They both howled with fright and Alf hastily fled to another seat.
‘The air was all bony there for a moment,’ explained Bendyshanks lamely in answer to the quizzical stares, and tentatively sat down again, looking quite shaken.
‘Everyone in?’ growled George. ‘Right then. We’re off.’
And with a shrill blast of the horn and an almighty grinding of gears, the coach lurched away.
There was a tense silence from both parties as they drove along the prom. It wasn’t often that Wizards and Witches shared such a confined space. In the normal course of events, they avoided each other. If a Witch and a Wizard should pass each other on the street, they would stick their noses in the air and look the other way. They despised each other’s Magical methods, for a start. With the Wizards, it was all lightning and colourful explosions, which the Witches considered flashy. They preferred cackling over cauldrons, a practice which the Wizards thought of as common.
For a while, nobody spoke. Then, suddenly, Sourmuddle spoke up.
‘Is somebody eating smelly cheese at the back there?’ she demanded primly. ‘If so, you can throw it out of the window.’
Fred the Flameraiser gave a guilty start and looked around wildly, unsure of what to do.
‘Don’t you do it, Fred,’ advised Frank the Foreteller. ‘You eat as much cheese as you like.’
That really set the cat among the pigeons.
‘Boo! Throw it out!’ bellowed the Witches. ‘Stop the coach! Make him throw it out.’
‘Don’t do it, Fred! You stand firm!’ countered the Wizards. ‘Keep going, driver, if you know what’s good for you!’
‘Throw it out! Stop the coach!’
George sighed. It looked like it was going to be another of Those Days.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Main Attraction
Meanwhile, back in Gobboworld a long, excited queue had formed for the popular Main Attraction. The Bobble Hat of Doom, the Roller Coaster, the Bungee Jump and the Helter-Skelter lay idle. The various sideshows and stalls had all been abandoned in favour of this, the latest amusement, which was proving to be an absolute winner.
The Main Attraction had been hastily set up on a roped-off platform rather like a boxing ring. This was where the Goblins normally conducted their celebrated Wet Bobble Hat competitions – jolly occasions when particularly daft volunteers would stand grinning vacantly while eager crowds armed with long hoses attempted to squirt their hats off. That was a lot of fun, of course – but in terms of pu
re pleasure, it had nothing on this, the latest diversion, an absolute corker which really had them rolling in the aisles.
It was a Main Attraction that couldn’t fail.
It was called Get Your Own Back, and consisted of five highly enjoyable, fun-filled activities. Hoop the Hag, Splodge the Wizard, Singalonga Superstar, Poke the Pet – and, for the grand finale – Wash the Witch!
Sharkadder, Ronald, Lulu, Hugo, Dudley and Pongwiffy, bound hand and foot, stood in a grim-faced line while hordes of enthusiastic Goblins fought for the pleasure of throwing hoops at Sharkadder’s nose (Hoop the Hag), hurling tomatoes at the hapless Ronald (Splodge the Wizard), singing interminable tuneless duets with Lulu (Singalonga Superstar), tickling Hugo and Dudley with feathers tied on the end of long poles until they begged for mercy (Poke the Pet), and last – and best of all – setting upon Pongwiffy armed with a bucket of warm water, a large sponge and a huge bar of pink soap! (Wash the Witch. What else?)
Warm water! Soap! Pongwiffy! Can you imagine?
‘Roll up, roll up!’ shouted Plugugly through a megaphone, banging on a bucket containing an unpleasant mess of overripe tomatoes. Below him, Eyesore, Lardo, Slopbucket, Stinkwart, Hog and Sproggit moved among the crowds, distributing hoops, tickling sticks, sponges, and buckets of warm, soapy water. ‘Dis way fer de Main Attraction! Step right up! Chance of a lifetime! Get Yer Own Back fer a change!’
Nobody needed any coaxing.
‘I suppose they think this is funny,’ ground out Sharkadder between clenched teeth. Cheers rang out as a fourth hoop rattled on to her nose, neatly lining up with three others which had already met their mark. ‘Hoop the Hag indeed! I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Some holiday this is turning out to be. Ouch! That hurt!’
‘Grooo,’ said Ronald through a mouth full of tomatoes. He had always hated tomatoes. They were in his hair too. Pulpy juice trickled into his ears and dripped on to his thin shoulders. Even his nice yellow shorts were getting stained. It was a high price to pay for a paddle.