by Kaye Umansky
Next along, Lulu was singing. Singalonga Superstar was proving to be an inspired idea. Goblins enjoy a good sing-song, and it wasn’t often they got the chance to warble along with someone as famous as Luscious Lulu Lamarre. One by one, grinning sheepishly, they filed on to the platform and whispered their requests into her ear. Once Lulu had kicked off, they mumbled along tunelessly while their friends cheered and whistled and took photographs. ‘Oh I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’ was a popular one.
‘I’m not singing any more,’ Lulu had complained at one point, stamping her foot petulantly. ‘My throat hurts.’
‘Fair enough. You can give out kisses instead if you like,’ offered Slopbucket with a hopeful giggle and going all pink.
Lulu burst quickly back into song.
Compared with the other victims, Hugo and Dudley had it easy. After all, they were only being tickled. But, as Hugo said later, it’s no fun being tickled by your sworn enemies.
Of all of them, though, Pongwiffy suffered the most. Coming into contact with soap was her worst ever nightmare and the Goblins knew it. My, how they applied themselves! How they rubbed and scrubbed and lathered and mopped! There was lather in her eyes and up her nose. She could hardly be seen for foam. The sea had been bad enough, but this! This was without doubt the greatest indignity she had ever suffered.
‘You’ll be sorry!’ she spluttered through a mouthful of froth. ‘I’ll get you for this, you see if I don’t! Oi! Plugugly! Sproggit! You wait till we get back to Witchway Wood! I’ll pulverise you! I’ll turn you all into creepy-crawlies and make you live under my stove! I’ll turn you into bedbugs and make you live under my mattress. I’ll . . .’
But another grinning Goblin was approaching with the foaming sponge, and the rest of her threats were drowned out.
‘There’s only one good thing about this,’ remarked Sharkadder as another hoop landed on her beringed nose with a clang.
‘What’s that, Auntie?’ choked Ronald, by now as near to a bottle of ketchup as it is possible for a human to be.
‘At least none of the others is here to see this,’ groaned Sharkadder. ‘We’d never live it down!’
‘I beg your pardon, driver?’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Could you just repeat that? For a moment I thought you said we were here.’
‘We are,’ said George, switching off his engine and pulling open the door. ‘This is it. End o’ the Mystery Tour.’
‘Do correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Sourmuddle politely, ‘but I believe that sign over those big gates says Gobboworld.’
‘That’s right,’ said George. ‘In you go. You got one hour to enjoy yourselves. Then I’m leavin’.’
There was a shocked silence from both Witches and Wizards alike. Nobody moved.
‘Go on, then,’ urged George. ‘Out you get. You can’t stop in the coach. Safety regulations.’
‘You mean this is it?’ demanded Fred the Flameraiser from the back. ‘You stuck us in with a coachload of common Witches who won’t even let a man eat cheese and brought us all that way for this?’
This brought mutters of protest from the Witches, along the lines of ‘Hear that? Who’s he calling common?’ and so on.
‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ argued George defensively. ‘Thought yer’d like to visit Gobboworld. Somethin’ a bit different, innit?’
There was an instant outcry.
‘Well I never!’ said Bendyshanks, disgusted. ‘What a swiz!’
‘And tae think Ah thought it was Scotland!’ wailed Macabre as her vision of a hot bowl of porridge poured itself away. Rory laid a sympathetic hoof on her lap.
‘Disgraceful!’ huffed and puffed the Wizards, equally put out.
‘Outrageous! Shouldn’t be allowed!’
‘Some Mystery Tour! The only mystery is why we ever came on it!’
‘Well, I for one will certainly be demanding a refund,’ said Sourmuddle crossly. With a sigh, she stood up and reached for her handbag. ‘Oh well. Come on, girls. Now we’re here, we might as well take a look, I suppose. There’s nothing else to do. Unless, of course, our esteemed fellow passengers would like to share the contents of that yummy-looking hamper with us.’
‘Dream on!’ shouted the Wizards. ‘The hamper’s ours!’
The Wizards were smarting. To their eternal shame, they had lost the battle of the cheese. Ratsnappy had simply marched up the aisle to where Fred the Flameraiser sat, snatched away his sandwich and thrown it out of the window.
It had been an embarrassing defeat. It had made the Wizards all the more determined to defend their hamper against all comers.
‘So are we getting out or what?’ enquired Dave the Druid.
‘I think we’d better,’ agreed Gerald the Just. ‘We might as well get our money’s worth. Besides, I’m sure our driver could do with a break,’ he added fairly.
‘You’re tellin’ me,’ said George.
‘But what about the hamper?’ came the anxious chorus. ‘Will it be safe?’
‘I’ll lock it in the coach,’ promised George. ‘Out you get, then, gents. Only an hour, mind, then back ’ere sharp. I got a schedule to keep.’
With a great deal of sighing and complaining and creaking and casting about for scarves and woolly mufflers and suchlike, the Wizards filed from the coach and shuffled off to catch up with the Witches, who were marching in a determined crocodile towards the ticket booth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Rescue
The Arm saw them coming and quailed. One minute everything was nice and quiet, the next its cosy world was turned upside down, along with the cup of tea it was currently enjoying.
Witches!?
Wizards!!??
Together???!!!
Ulp!
Whatever were they doing here? Could it be – horrors! – could it be that this was a properly organised rescue party who had somehow found out about the new Main Attraction and was coming to take revenge? The sight of so many pointy hats was truly frightening and it gave the Arm a real turn.
Lesser arms would have immediately retreated in alarm and reappeared holding a white flag. Not this Arm. This Arm was a pro. It set down its empty teacup, then stuck out again, effectively blocking the entrance. Granted it was shaking a little and its thick black hairs stood up on end – but to its credit, it held firm. Its mudder would have been proud.
‘Open the gates, if you please,’ demanded Sourmuddle briskly. ‘I’ve got a party of Witches here on a Mystery Tour. We’ve come to look at Gobboworld. Not our choice, you understand, but now we’re here we might as well.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to go in there,’ gibbered the Arm. ‘You wouldn’t like it. Not your sort of thing at all.’
‘How do you know?’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘You haven’t a clue about what Witches like. Now open up before I get annoyed.’
‘Anyway,’ added the Arm hopefully, ‘anyway, we’re closed.’
‘Oh yes? What’s all that cheering I can hear coming from inside, then?’
‘I meant full,’ amended the Arm. ‘That’s it. We’re full. An’ anyway, it’s private. Only Goblins allowed.’
‘Enough of this nonsense!’
Dave the Druid bustled impatiently to the front. ‘Stand aside, Sourmuddle, I’ll deal with this. Come along, man, come along! We Wizards haven’t got all day. We’ve got a Convention to attend.’
‘Hear hear! Quite right. You tell him,’ rumbled the Wizards supportively.
‘I need ter see yer tickets,’ pleaded the Arm.
‘Tickets schmickets,’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘Since when have Witches needed tickets? Now hurry up and open those gates. You don’t keep Witches waiting.’
‘Or Wizards,’ poked in Dave the Druid.
‘Well, I dunno . . .’ muttered the Arm. ‘I got my instructions, see. Nobody’s allowed to enter without a tick— ow!’
It broke off with a sharp cry of pain as Sourmuddle smacked it. Hard, right on the back of the wrist. Hastily it withdrew into th
e booth.
‘Something wrong with your ears?’ enquired Sourmuddle. ‘When a Witch tells you to do something, you do it. Naughty boys who don’t listen to Witches get smacks. Now. Open those gates this minute. Or do you want another?’
The Arm didn’t want another. Without any more argument, it pressed the button that opened the gates.
Inside, Get Your Own Back was still doing record business. There was no doubt about it. It was proving to be the high spot of Gobboworld. There wasn’t a Goblin there who didn’t want to have a go.
The queuing system had long since broken down. A baying rabble now clustered thickly around the platform, pushing and shoving and howling with impatience. Some of the bigger ones had already had two turns, to the annoyance of some of the smaller ones who had been waiting for ages.
One such Goblin was right at the back of the milling crowd. His name was Squit. And it was because he was right at the back that he was the only one who heard the main gates rumble open behind him. Squit glanced back over his shoulder – and saw a sight that made him do a double take, then go weak at the knees.
‘Oooer,’ said Squit. ‘Er – boys? Boys! I think we got visitors.’
And indeed they had.
Just inside the gates, the coach party stood in a tableau of frozen disbelief. Their mouths hung open and their eyes boggled at the scene before them.
‘Witches!’ squawked Squit, beating frantically on the wall of backs. ‘Witches and Wizards, ’undreds of ’em! Look to yer rear! Emergency, emergency! We bin rumbled!’
The word went round like wildfire. Well, actually, it didn’t. Goblins are slow to cotton on, and it was more like a damp squib on a slow fuse. Eventually, though, the message filtered through. The Witches were here! With the Wizards!
Slowly, the cheers and catcalls died away. Hoops were guiltily lowered. Tomatoes were hastily stuffed into pockets. Tickling sticks were hidden. Soapy sponges were abandoned. The crowd parted, peeling back on two sides and providing a clear pathway that led from the platform back to where the unexpected visitors stood in shocked disbelief.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Plugugly sadly. ‘Dat’s us done for, den. Caught in de act. Goo’bye, cruel world.’
Up on the platform, aware of the sudden silence that had fallen, the six wretched captives raised abject eyes and stared at their rescuers with a mixture of relief and shame. Relief that their ordeal was over. Shame that they should be discovered in such embarrassing circumstances.
‘I’m not seeing things, am I? That is Pongwiffy up there, under all that soap?’ asked Sourmuddle, finally finding her voice. She sounded doubtful. It was hard to recognise Pongwiffy without her customary layers of grime.
‘It certainly looks like it, Sourmuddle,’ agreed Macabre grimly. ‘What a turn-up, eh?’
‘What’s Sharkadder doing with all those rings on her nose, do you think, Ag?’ asked Bagaggle, sounding puzzled. ‘Is she doing an impression of a curtain rail, or what?’
‘Possibly, Bag. And isn’t that Lulu Lamarre the Superstar? What’s she doing?’
Consternation was also running through the ranks of the Wizards.
‘Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that young Ronald up on that platform?’ quavered Harold the Hoodwinker, sounding puzzled. ‘All covered in tomatoes, isn’t he? And where are his trousers? Not very dignified, is it?’
‘I’m afraid you’re right, Harold,’ confirmed Frank the Foreteller gleefully. ‘Dearie dearie me. Looks like the lad’s made a bit of a laughing stock of himself, don’t you think? Got himself in another pickle. Or should I say chutney, ha ha? Tomato chutney, I meant. Get it?’
‘Letting the side down, I call it,’ tutted Alf the Invisible. ‘A very poor show indeed.’
‘Of course, it’s probably all the Goblins’ fault,’ said Gerald the Just fairly.
‘True,’ chorused all the Witches and Wizards together, then looked at each other in surprise. It wasn’t often they found themselves in agreement.
‘How long did the driver say we’ve got?’ Sourmuddle asked Dave the Druid, beginning to roll up her sleeves.
‘One hour,’ Dave told her.
‘Excellent. That should be plenty of time. I think this calls for a bit of united action, don’t you? A temporary truce. All for one and one for all. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ nodded Dave. ‘Just this once, mind.’
‘Right. Let’s teach these Goblins a lesson they won’t forget. Ready, everyone?’
‘Ready!’ came the chorus from Witches and Wizards alike.
‘Then let’s get ’em!’
And the Goblins scattered, screaming, in all directions, as the rescue party charged.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Triumphant Return
What a different atmosphere there was in the coach as it wended its way back towards Sludgehaven that evening. Instead of argument, there was laughter and singing. Instead of bickering, there was hearty backslapping and self-congratulation, particularly among the Wizards, who weren’t used to physical exercise. Reducing Gobboworld to a pile of smoking rubble had proved to be a lot more strenuous than shuffling between bed and dinner table – but my word, it had been fun! In fact, it had been a real tonic. Even the Venerable Harold the Hoodwinker looked ten years younger. Well, five, maybe.
‘We showed ’em, didn’t we?’ shouted Fred the Flameraiser. ‘We knocked the spots off those Goblins! They won’t mess with Wizards again in a hurry. Did you see my karate jabs? Aaiiiiii – ha!’
‘What about me, then?’ piped up Harold the Hoodwinker in his quavering little voice. ‘Did you shee me wallop that big one? Thwack, right on his nose! Didn’t think I still had it in me.’
‘But did you see me when I took over the hose?’ crowed Frank the Foreteller, flushed with triumph. ‘I made ’em run all right!’
‘Ah, but you should have seen when I chased a great gang of ’em into the mud pool! Terrified, they were!’
‘Terrified? You want to see terrified, you should have seen the one I chased up the Roller Coaster – white as a sheet he was. You see, the way it happened was like this . . .’
‘And it was fair too,’ Gerald the Just was saying. ‘That’s what I like about it. We didn’t use the unfair advantage of Magic. We beat them fair and square, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘What a day, eh?’ sighed Dave the Druid. ‘Almost worth young Ronald getting captured for. What d’you say, young Ronald? Feeling any better yet?’
Ronald, wrapped in a blanket, stared out of the window and said nothing.
‘I say we break open the hamper,’ suggested Frank the Foreteller. ‘I reckon young Ronald here would like a bite to eat. What about it, lad? Fancy a nice tomato sandwich, ha ha ha?’
Ronald picked pips from his hair and continued to say nothing.
‘There, there,’ Gerald the Just consoled him. ‘Don’t take it to heart. I’m sure we all made fools of ourselves in our youth. Tell you what. We’ll take you back to the hotel and clean you up, then order a whacking great six-course celebratory dinner. Then tomorrow we’ll all come and hear you read out your paper at the Convention. Now I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
Ronald cheered up a bit.
The Witches too were all in excellent humour. There was nothing like wiping the floor with Goblins to put them in a good mood. All, that is, except Pongwiffy and Sharkadder. They weren’t in a good mood at all. Bedraggled, bruised and humiliated, they sat slumped soggily together in the front seat with Dudley and Hugo on their laps, stonily ignoring various jibes along the lines of ‘Who got caught by Goblins, then?’ and ‘Been starring in a soap, Pongwiffy?’ and other such staggeringly witty comments.
It was no fun, being the butt of everyone’s jokes.
‘Hear that?’ muttered Pongwiffy to Sharkadder as yet another chorus of ‘I’m Forever Throwing Goblins’ started up. ‘It’s all very well for them. They haven’t suffered like I have. Look at me! I’m all pink! It’ll take weeks to get back to normal. Yuc
k!’
‘You? You? What about me? Have you seen my hair? I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. I’ve become a complete laughing-stock, and it’s all your fault, Pongwiffy, and I’ll never forgive you. You’ve completely ruined my holiday.’
‘Well, I like that!’ said Pongwiffy, hurt. ‘I was only trying to help Scott. At least that part of the plan worked. We got her out of the way, didn’t we?’
She fired off a look of dislike at Lulu, who was sitting in tight-lipped silence next to George at the very front. She was being given a lift back to Sludgehaven at the Wizards’ gallant insistence. The Witches were in far too frisky a mood to care one way or the other.
‘At least Scott got his chance,’ Pongwiffy went on. ‘The show should be ending round about now. Oh, how I wish we’d been there to see it. I just know he’ll have been a success. Just imagine it, Sharky. Our very own Scott’s name back up in lights and all thanks to me. It’ll make all our suffering worthwhile, won’t it?’
‘No,’ said Sharkadder bitterly. ‘Nothing could make up for what Dudley and I have been through today. Except perhaps a huge, greedy supper. But we won’t get that at old Molotoff’s.’
Outside, evening had fallen. The coach wheezed its way to the top of the last hill. A pale moon floated in the dark sky, lighting up the big welcoming sign that read: YOU ARE APPROACHING SLUDGEHAVEN. MAGIC STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. The lights of Sludgehaven glimmered below. From here, the distant pier looked like fairyland.
Cheers broke out, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of corks popping from bottles of celebratory fizzy lemonade. The Wizards had broken open the hamper, and were busily passing around chicken legs and sausage rolls.
‘Well, come on then,’ shouted Sludgegooey. ‘Pass a few down to the front. Don’t keep ’em all to yourselves. There’s a lot of hungry Witches down here. Give us a sandwich, you greedy lot.’