by Sally Rippin
Greens aren’t her favourite either, but at least they don’t move.
She jabs her fork into the leaves, careful to avoid any mealworms that might have crawled under, before she puts some in her mouth.
‘Can I please have some more mealworms?’ Winifred asks, pushing her plate forwards.
‘Of course!’ their mum says, happily. ‘How are you going with yours, Polly?’
‘Fine,’ Polly sighs, hiding a wriggling pile of the slime-covered grubs under a thistle leaf.
Polly feels something soft and wet against her knee. It’s Gumpy, their pet bortal. She’s squatting beside Polly, drooling and looking up at her with hopeful eyes.
Gumpy loves mealworms. But then, Gumpy loves any food. In fact, Gumpy will eat just about anything you feed her. When Polly and Winifred were younger, they tested this out. They tried easy things at first: paper, string, plasticine, bubble wrap.
Gumpy had eaten all of them without a fuss.
So then they tried crunchy things that were a little harder to chew. Batteries, teacups, a Slinky and even their mother’s glasses case. With her glasses still in it.
This last one got them into trouble because their mother’s glasses were new. Ever since then, Polly and Winifred have been banned from feeding her.
Besides, Gumpy’s a little on the roly-poly side now, so she’s only supposed to eat special bortal diet food. This makes her cranky and hungry all the time so they have to be extra careful not to leave anything on the floor. The week before, Gumpy had forced her way into Polly’s bedroom while she was at school, and devoured her whole set of My Little Unicorn figurines.
The only good thing about having a pet who eats everything is that Polly’s mum never has to sweep the floor. Anything that falls onto it is vacuumed up within minutes.
When no-one is looking, Polly scoops up a forkful of mealworms and drops them under the table.
‘Mum! Polly’s feeding Gumpy!’ Winifred sings out.
‘Polly!’ says their mum.
‘Winifred!’ growls Polly. ‘You’re such a dobber!’
‘Eat your mealworms,’ says their mum.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Polly grumbles.
‘Maybe that’s because of all the jamcakes you ate with Buster?’ Winifred says, smiling sweetly.
‘Have you been spying on me?’ Polly shouts.
‘Why would I spy on you?’ Winifred says. ‘I can see you from my bedroom window, bug-brain. Don’t worry, you’re not that interesting!’
‘Polly,’ their mum sighs, pouring herself another glass of juniper wine. She pushes her glasses up onto her head and rubs the bridge of her nose. ‘You’re not still playing with that monster from next door, are you? You know witches don’t play with monsters. It was OK when you were younger, but not now you’re growing up. Imagine what the other witches at school would think!’
‘But he’s my best friend,’ Polly says, angrily. Then, a little quieter, ‘My only friend. None of the witches at school like me.’
‘It’s true,’ Winifred says, pushing her empty plate away and picking at her black nail polish. ‘She has no friends.’
‘Winifred!’ their mum says. ‘That’s not very nice. I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘It is!’ Polly says. She stabs at a mealworm with her fork. ‘Nobody wants to be friends with me. I’m hopeless at everything. Especially spells.’
‘She threw wart potion at Malorie Halloway in class today,’ Winifred says, sniggering.
‘Polly!’ their mum gasps. ‘Not Deidre Halloway’s daughter?’
Polly nods.
‘Oh, Polly! Why?’ their mum groans. ‘Anyone but Deidre Halloway’s daughter. I’ll never hear the end of it at the next Committee meeting.’
‘She was laughing at me!’ Polly says.
‘That doesn’t mean you should …’ Their mother throws her hands in the air. ‘Oh, Polly. You really do have to try harder to manage your temper. You’re so like your Aunt Hilda …’
This is what it always comes to. Every time Polly’s mum despairs of Polly, she throws her hands up into the air and says, ‘You’re just like your Aunt Hilda.’
Aunt Hilda is their father’s wild and wayward sister. She ran away at sixteen in a haze of secrecy and scandal, and was never seen again. Polly’s mother never talks about Aunt Hilda in a good way. To be compared to Aunt Hilda is just about the worst thing Polly’s mother can say. Polly feels her throat bunch up and her eyes spring with tears. She pushes her chair back from the table.
‘Polly! Where are you going?’ her mother asks as Polly stands up.
‘Outside!’ says Polly.
‘I’ll bet she’s going next door,’ Winifred smirks. ‘Do you want me to stop her?’
‘Just leave her,’ their mother sighs, as Polly rushes out the front door and into the darkness.
Her heart is hurting and her eyes are stinging and there is only one person in the world who can make her feel better.
Polly runs through the star-speckled gloom, along their neat garden path lined with nodding clawflowers, out the tall black iron gates and along the street until she reaches the identical black gates of the house next door. She creaks them open and her sodden heart lifts a little when she sees the welcoming glow coming from the windows of Buster’s crumbling old mansion.
It’s been a while since Polly has visited Buster’s family. These days, she and Buster can only meet secretly. Luckily, the old morpett tree that leans up against the high stone wall between their two houses is the perfect spot.
But when Polly was little, she spent almost as much time at Buster’s house as her own – especially after her dad died. Sometimes, during that long, sad winter, Polly’s mum wouldn’t get out of bed, not even to eat the soup that Buster’s mum had cooked for her. When Polly and Winifred’s mother was ghostlike with grief, and only just floating through each day as best as she could, Polly and her big sister would go over to Buster’s house. The three of them would play hidey or hunt snails in the ramshackle garden. They would perch up at the kitchen bench and dip jamcakes fresh from the oven into bowls of warm honeyed milk.
Now that Winifred is thirteen and head witch in her class, she wouldn’t be seen dead with a monster.
Polly strides up the wonky stone path that cuts through Buster’s overgrown garden. She knocks on the enormous wooden door. Heavy footsteps approach and the porch lantern is switched on.
‘Oooh, it’s Polly!’ Buster’s mum squeals happily.
She stretches out her big knotty hands and scoops Polly up into her arms. Buster’s mother is not the most attractive monster in town, but when she smiles it’s like the sun is shining right out of her.
Buster appears in the hallway behind his mother.
‘Mum! Be careful!’ he says protectively. ‘She’s not a monster, you know!’
Buster’s mother plonks Polly back down on the stone porch and flattens her ruffled hair with her big, calloused fingers.
‘Oh, look how big you’re getting!’ she coos. ‘How are you, my little witchling? It’s so nice to see you!’
‘I’m OK,’ Polly says, laughing and wiping something sticky off her cheek. ‘It’s nice to see you too, Mrs Grewclaw.’
‘Oh, you know to call me Patsy, my dear smootchkin!’ she cries. ‘No need for formalities between us. Bruce! Look who’s here! It’s Polly, from next door. Buster’s little witch-friend!’
‘Well, bring ’er in!’ Buster’s dad roars from the other room. ‘Don’t leave her standing out in the cold!’
Patsy rolls her eyes. ‘As if I’d do that,’ she says, placing her hands on her broad hips and shaking her head. ‘Come inside, munchky. Have you eaten? We’re having a cheeky flummery cake in the drawing room, if you’ll join us?’
Polly’s tummy rumbles with pleasure. She was happy to have avoided eating the mealworms at dinner, but now she realises how hungry she is. ‘Yes, please!’ she says.
‘Are you all right?’ Buster whispers, as Polly steps insi
de and his mother closes the door behind them. He has turned a little grey with worry.
Polly shrugs. ‘I just needed to get out of the house for a while. Is that OK?’
‘Of course!’ Buster’s mother says. ‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of company? We have a few monsters staying with us at the moment. But there’s plenty of room for more!’
Polly smiles. Patsy is always looking after other monsters. Sometimes they are baby monsters who are naughty and troublesome. They climb into cupboards and eat all the food, mess up the house and break her best crockery.
Other times they are old, broken monsters with worn-down teeth, bent over with sadness from never having been loved. The old ones are cranky and fill up the room with dampness and smell.
‘They’re driving Dad nuts,’ Buster tells Polly. ‘As usual.’
‘Well, someone has to look after them, don’t they?’ his mother says, turning to walk down the corridor towards the back of the house. ‘It’s all very well to love monsters who are loveable, but it’s the unloveable ones who need it the most.’
Polly and Buster follow Patsy down the dark hallway, careful not to trip over all the junk that has collected there. Generations of Buster’s relatives peer down at them from ornate wooden frames hung crookedly along the walls. At the entrance to the drawing room, Patsy kicks a massive pair of leather boots to one side and leads them in.
A higgledy-piggledy collection of old armchairs has been moved into a semi-circle around the enormous fireplace, where flames hiss and roar. Buster’s father, Bruce, is leaning over a low table where a towering flummery cake teeters precariously on a pretty china plate.
It is topped with bilberries and slathered with cream.
Bruce is lanky and skinny and only half Patsy’s height. He has scaly skin, not fur, and a huge hooked nose that Buster was lucky not to have inherited. Bruce looks permanently cross and frowny, unlike Buster’s sunshiney mother. But even though he grumbles about her all day long, there is no-one in the world who adores Patsy more than Bruce does. Even if she does fill the place with all manner of annoying monsters who eat them out of house and home.
This evening, there are three old monsters by the fire, crammed into the threadbare floral armchairs. Each monster is balancing a little china plate with a big wedge of flummery cake on their wobbly knees. When one monster opens his mouth to pop a forkful of cake in, a great gust of stinky air rolls out.
Polly has to wipe away the tears that spring into her eyes and stop herself from gagging.
‘Bernie hasn’t eaten in a while. It makes his breath a little stinky, I’m afraid,’ Patsy whispers to Polly and Buster. ‘How’s the cake, Bernie?’ she calls out to the old monster.
Bernie nods happily and gives them a great gap-toothed grin. Another wave of fetid air rushes towards them. He lifts the china plate and licks the cream off it with a big pink tongue.
Then he makes to pop the plate in his mouth, too.
‘Oh no! Not the plate, please, dear,’ Patsy says, rushing over to Bernie’s side. ‘I’m a bit short on crockery as it is. Here, have some more tea instead. Charlie, Graham, would you like some more, too? Polly! Come over, pippikin, and have some cake. You can sit on the footstool in front of the fire. Don’t worry, they don’t bite. Oh, except Maggie. But only if she’s startled. Maybe don’t sit too close to her.’
Polly heads towards the fireplace with Buster and turns to look at the monster Patsy is referring to. Maggie sits on her own in a dark corner, scowling and grunting, her bony knees tucked up under her chin. When she sees Polly looking at her, she hisses and sticks out a long purple tongue at them.
‘Maggie’s family kicked her out because she kept biting the grandchildren,’ Patsy explains in hushed tones. ‘Poor dear. Now she has nowhere to go.’
‘Just as well we don’t have any grandchildren in the house,’ Bruce grumbles. ‘Cake, dear?’ he says, handing Polly a plate.
Polly and Buster sit side by side on the little footstool by the fire, scoffing Patsy’s glorious cake. ‘Oh, this is so yummy!’ Polly sighs, licking cream off her fingers. ‘I wish my mum would make cakes like this. She only lets us eat healthy sweets, like chickweed tart and wormwood loaf.’
‘Well, your mother has always been a lot more … conscientious … about her cooking than I am,’ Patsy says tactfully.
‘Do you want another piece?’ Buster asks.
Polly rubs her tummy, where three pieces of flummery cake are now digesting, and burps. The monsters in the room all roar appreciatively.
Polly giggles. ‘No, I’d better get back soon. Mum will be worried about me.’
‘Do say hello to your ma, dear,’ Patsy says. ‘And tell her that cup of tea I promised over the fence all those years ago is still on offer!’
‘I will,’ says Polly, even though she will do no such thing.
Polly knows her mother would be more likely to fly to the moon than be seen sharing a pot of tea with a monster. Witches just don’t mix with monsters. Especially witches like Polly’s mum who care a great deal about what other witches think of them.
‘Buster, you’ll see Polly home, won’t you?’ Patsy says. ‘And keep an eye out for Maggie, dear. She must have slipped outside while we were eating. I don’t think she’d bite Polly, but it’s probably better to be on the safe side.’
When Polly gets home, the kitchen has been cleared and the dishwasher is on. Only Gumpy is still under the table, helpfully vacuuming up any last crumbs that have spilled or mealworms that have escaped. Polly wonders if she is going to be in trouble for not helping clear the table. It was her job to stack the dishwasher tonight.
She can hear the TV on in the lounge room. She tiptoes down the hallway, deciding it’s probably better to avoid her mum for now, just in case.
‘Polly?’ her mum calls out. ‘Is that you?’
Her mother’s voice sounds tired but friendly. Polly’s not in trouble. She sighs in relief.
‘Come and sit with us for a bit, pumpkin,’ her mum calls. ‘We’re watching Nastiest Witch on the Block. Sycamore is winning.’
Polly’s mum is curled up on their neat linen couch, her uncomfortable black work heels kicked off. Winifred is on the beanbag in front of the television.
Polly hovers in the doorway of the lounge room to watch. The aim of Nastiest Witch on the Block is to see who can be the meanest to the other contestants. Polly’s mum and Winifred are hooked on it, but it’s not really Polly’s thing.
An ad break comes on and Winifred unglues her eyes from the TV and twists around to look at Polly. ‘How was Buster?’ she taunts, but to Polly’s surprise, their mother ignores her.
‘Come along, pumpkin,’ their mum beckons, smiling.
She pats the space beside her, a glass of juniper wine in her other hand.
Polly wanders over and curls into her mother’s side on the couch. Her mum smells like vanilla and spiderwebs and juniper berries.
‘Don’t mind your sister,’ she whispers in Polly’s ear. ‘She doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just going through a stage.’
Gumpy trots in, plops down on the shaggy rug and within moments is snoring loudly.
Their mother turns up the volume, and they watch the ad where a witch demonstrates the fancy new gadgets on the Broomstick 100.
‘I can’t wait to get my broomstick licence,’ Winifred says enviously.
‘Broomsticks are dangerous,’ tuts their mother.
‘Mum!’ Winifred groans. ‘All my friends will be getting one! They’re fine.’
‘Well, I certainly don’t like those motorised ones. There are just too many accidents each year for me to feel comfortable with my daughters riding them.’
‘It’s only bat-brained warlocks who fly too fast who have accidents,’ says Winifred.
‘We’ll talk about this again when you’re sixteen,’ their mum says, shutting down the conversation just as their show comes back on.
The three of them settle in to watch. It’s getting
close to the season finale, and only Sycamore and three other contestants remain. Sycamore is an old schoolmate of Polly’s mother, and the most horrible witch they’ve had on so far.
‘Ooh, she’s good, isn’t she?’ Polly’s mum says.
They watch Sycamore cast a spell on another contestant, which makes her break out into pus-filled sores just as she’s about to go on a date.
‘She was always so good at spells at school,’ continues their mum. ‘I’m not surprised she’s kept up with it. Not many other witches in our year level did.’
Sycamore’s latest victim bursts into tears and runs away from the restaurant where her date is waiting.
Winifred guffaws with laughter. ‘That stupid witch will be voted off this week, for sure!’
Polly has an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. Everyone at her school loves this show. Sycamore is the pride graduate of Miss Madden’s Academy of Witchcraft and Spells, and was voted Most Powerful Witch in her final year. But when Polly watches the poor witch standing there with tears flowing over her bumpy, sore-covered cheeks, it just makes her feel confused.
Polly knows it’s only a game, and that the losing witches will have their spells reversed the moment they leave the show. But she doesn’t find any of it funny like everyone else seems to. If anything, it only makes her sad.
‘Actually, I’ve just remembered I’ve got homework to do,’ Polly mumbles.
‘OK dear,’ her mother says, her eyes still fixed on the screen, ‘but don’t stay up too late, will you? You’ve got an excursion to the gallery tomorrow and you don’t want to be tired.’
Polly trudges upstairs to her room, heavyhearted, once again wondering why she feels so different to everyone she knows.
The next morning when Polly wakes up, the sun is streaming through her window. Polly feels sure this means it’s going to be a good day.