01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (10 page)

“Right, sit up straight. This poem is entitled,
Hard Words.
I suspect
it’s way beyond you, but I can’t help being clever. So here goes.

HARD WORDS

Adenoids, apothecary,

Symbolize, constabulary,

Oxidize, preliminary,

Psychic Eskimo,

Peekaboo and barbecue.

Here’s a French one, rendezvous.

These are but a sample

Of the hardest words I know.

Thank you. Goodnight.” And Greymatter walked off to a storm of applause.
Nobody had understood a word, but thought that if they clapped hard enough,
everyone else would think they had.

Next came Macabre who, if you remember, was planning Something Scottish. The
curtains opened, and the audience gasped. Macabre, whose uncle was in the paint
trade, had painted a huge back-cloth depicting a Scottish Glen. There was a lot
of swirling purple (heather), swirling grey (sky), and yellow blobs (sheep—her
uncle couldn’t get white).

In the midst of this Highland Scene sat Macabre in full Scottish rigout,
mounted on her Haggis, who had a ton of heather plaited into his orange fringe
and was draped with much tartan. His head sported a peculiar sort of hat thing
which was apparently Traditional Haggis Ceremonial Headgear. He snorted and shook
his fringe proudly, pawing the boards while Macabre, wearing so much clashing
tartan that the audience saw squares for a week, blew into her bagpipes,
intending to treat the assembled company to a rousing chorus of Scotland the
Brave.

Unfortunately, a tragedy had occurred. Somebody had Sabotaged The Bagpipes.
We won’t say who, because it really was a terribly mean thing to do, and if we
ever found out who it was we’d have to kick her out of this story in disgrace,
which would be a pity. But the fact remains that Somebody (armed with a knitting
needle or something similar) had attacked those bagpipes in the still of the
night and punctured them very thoroughly. In fact, they had more holes than a
fishing net.

The minute Macabre blew, they gave a sad little puffing wheeze and then gave
in and died. Macabre, taken aback, shook them, attempted the kiss of life, then
gave vent to such a disgraceful stream of Scottish Bad Words that the audience
were enthralled. The Haggis, also outraged, reared up, steam hissing from its
nostrils, and let out a bitter moo.

“Ah’ll find oot!” raged Macabre, waving her ceremonial sword aloft. “Ah’ll
find oot who murdered ma wee pipes if it’s the last thing ah do!”

And she hurled the useless bagpipes into the audience. They landed on Scott
Sinister, but he didn’t wake up. She whirled her Haggis and galloped off stage,
howling doom and destruction.

What an act! What could follow that but the interval? The audience fell upon
the ice-cream with cries of delight and contentedly stuffed themselves, talking
about how much they were enjoying it. These Witches could certainly put on a
show. Even the Skeletons said it wasn’t bad, they supposed.

Ten minutes later Pongwiffy called time and the audience waded back to their
seats through a sea of bogberry ripple and buzzed excitedly as the second half
began.

The first act after the interval was Ratsnappy. She was dressed as a clown in
a shiny suit with bobbles attached. She had done her best, but the wide red
smile painted on her face did little to disguise her usual expression of chronic
bad temper.

“Who held a party in the haunted house?” she growled.

“We don’t know! Tell us!” screamed the crowd.

“Who d’you think?” snarled Ratsnappy—“The ghostess. Here’s another. What
d’you say to a two-headed monster? Hallo hallo.”

“Hear that? Hallo hallo! Get it? Oh ha ha ha!” roared the audience.

Ratsnappy, who only knew two jokes, signalled to the band to begin playing so
that she could do a Funny Dance she had worked out. Sadly, she had only finished
making her long clown shoes that morning, and hadn’t actually practised dancing
in them. She only managed to do three hops and a twirl before falling flat on
her face. She was carried off unconscious. The audience, convinced this was all
part of the act, gave her a standing ovation.

Scrofula came next, sitting on a stool with her hand in a holey sock.

“Gottle of geer, gottle of geer,” ground out Scrofula through gritted teeth,
and waggled her fingers a bit, to make the sock look like it was talking.
“Hello, everygoggy, gy game ish Fred.” (Get that?)

“Saw your lips move,” shouted one of the Banshees.

“Gno you giggen.” (No you didn’t!) “Yes we did.” (Yes we did.) “Gno you
giggen!” (No you didn’t!) “Yes we did!” (Yes we did!) “Giggen! Giggen!” (Didn’t!
Didn’t!) “Gig! Gig!” (Did! Did!) It was all great fun, and everyone was
disappointed when Scrofula wiggled her fingers just that bit too hard and the
sock fell apart. No more sock, no more act—but everyone agreed that it had been
wonderful while it lasted, and Scrofula took bow after triumphant bow.

Time now for Sludgegooey’s Impressions. These proved enormously popular,
because the impressions were all of her fellow Witches. She did Sharkadder
making-up, Pongwiffy scenting a rubbish tip, Bonidle getting up in the morning,
and Gaga trying to add up a milk bill. She never got any further than that,
because Sharkadder, Pongwiffy, Bonidle and Gaga marched on stage looking very
put out and bundled her off, much to the displeasure of the audience, who had
loved it so far and wanted to see the rest. At this point, Scott Sinister woke
up, checked his programme, and was relieved to see that there were only two acts
to go.

Sharkadder’s Make-up Demonstration was next. The curtains parted, revealing
a large table set out with mirrors, dozens of little pots, lipsticks, brushes,
jars, combs and hair grips. Beneath the table was a huge bucket full of hot mud.
Sharkadder, wearing orange ribbons, a shocking pink evening gown and so much
rouge that it hurt to look at her, waltzed to the front of the stage and asked
for a volunteer.

The audience with one accord shrank into their seats. Some went so far as to
get down on hands and knees pretending they’d dropped their programmes, so anxious
were they not to volunteer. In the wings, Pongwiffy sniggered. Sharkadder heard.

“I thought of demonstrating on Pongwiffy,” Sharkadder told the audience
maliciously. “But there really doesn’t seem much point. It would be like putting
a fresh coat of paint on a very old and cracked wall. So perhaps…” she added
sweetly. “Perhaps our distinguished guest would oblige. Up you come, Mr.
Sinister!”

Scott Sinister was too much of a showman to refuse. With a tolerant smile he
stood, graciously acknowledged the cheers of the audience and made his way to
the stage, sinking elegantly into the chair Sharkadder had set ready. He glanced
into the wings and suddenly began to get a bit worried by the sight of Pongwiffy
shaking her head and mouthing “No! No!” with a desperate expression on her face.

“Look, I really don’t think…” said Scott Sinister, attempting to rise.

“Too late, Mr. Sinister, you’re mine now,” trilled Sharkadder gaily, giving
him a rough push and draping a towel around his neck. “Now, everybody, pay close
attention, for I am about to demonstrate deep cleansing. For this, I use hot
mud.” And she scooped a large handful from the bucket and slapped it on Scott
Sinister’s face. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Firstly, it was uncomfortably
hot, and secondly, a great deal of it went into his mouth.

“Groooougghch!” spluttered Scott Sinister. “Get… it… off!”

“Patience, Mr. Sinister,” sang Sharkadder brightly. “We must wait a moment and
let the cooling mudpack do its work, drawing out all the little impurities and
hidden gunk that you never knew you had. Right, that should be long enough. Now,
everybody, you will observe that I take this old rag and wipe it off, leaving a
beautifully radiant skin, glowing with cleanliness.”

And Sharkadder attempted to wipe off the mud. And this is the point at which
she came unstuck.

And the reason she became unstuck is that the mud didn’t. It didn’t seem to
want to shift at all. It remained firmly welded in a great glob to the famous
Sinister face.

And the reason that it wouldn’t wipe off is because, unbeknown to Sharkadder,
Pongwiffy had dropped in just a few drops of Stickee Kwickee Superglue, the
advertising slogan of which is “Falling apart? Gum and stick with us.”

It was lethal stuff, instant and long lasting, and it was very wrong of
Pongwiffy to have put it in Sharkadder’s cleansing mud. Shall we throw her out
of this story? What excuses does she have?

Well, of course, she has had a great deal of provocation since the affair of
the missing hair rollers, which she genuinely hadn’t taken. In fact, the
hedgehogs had roused themselves enough one night to crawl off home by
themselves. Sharkadder had accused Pongwiffy of stealing them, and written
PONGWIFFY IS A THEEF
in lipstick on tree trunks all over the forest, which
was of course untrue.

So, although Pongwiffy had behaved very badly and had no right to spoil
Sharkadder’s chance of winning the Hugo award by playing such an underhand
trick, perhaps we’ll let her off. Particularly as the trick had misfired so
badly and her beloved Scott is now thickly coated in a mudpack which has gone
from globby to rock hard in seconds.

“Mmmmph!” wailed Scott Sinister, from somewhere underneath.

“Keep calm, Mr. Sinister. Can you hear me in there? I’m rubbing as hard as I
can… It’s funny, I can’t get it off my hand either…” cried poor Sharkadder,
who still hadn’t twigged what had happened.

“Oh no! Oh no!” moaned Pongwiffy in the wings, rocking to and fro in horror as
her idol flung himself from the chair and began to flail blindly about the
stage, muttering, “grooo” and “blurk” and other muffled things like that.
Pongwiffy had made the bad mistake, you see, of assuming that as usual
Sharkadder would fail to get a volunteer and end up demonstrating on herself.

In the process of rocking, Pongwiffy’s hat fell off, which was a pity because
that was where she had hidden the tube of Stickee Kwickee after carrying out the
evil deed.

“Aha!” screamed Sharkadder, seeing it fall. “Now I get it!” And all hell
broke loose. Sharkadder scooped up a handful of mud and hurled it at Pongwiffy.
It caught her slap in the left eye. Pongwiffy screeched and threw herself at
Sharkadder. They rolled around the stage, tipping over the bucket of mud. It
glopped all over the place. Huge cheers came from the audience.

Scott Sinister, still staggering around, slipped as the hot tide lapped
around his ankles and fell (you’ve got it) into the orchestra pit, putting
his foot through Filth’s one remaining drum and splattering the audience with
glue-spiked mud.

Of course, the audience retaliated with ice-cream, programmes, benches and
anything they could lay their hands on. Macabre came galloping back down the
aisle on her Haggis, thinking it was straightforward mud wrestling. Witches and
Familiars poured from backstage and waded in with a will. Within seconds the
hall was in a total uproar.

To crown it all, poor old Grandwitch Sourmuddle was standing on Sharkadder’s
table wearing a yellow party frock and singing
Happy birthday to me,
which of course was the surprise song which she hadn’t had the chance to sing.
(You’d guessed that, hadn’t you?) Nobody noticed, which was rather sad. After
all, she was very old and Mistress of the Coven.

And that was the end of the Great Talent Contest, if not the end of the
evening. The end of the evening was a disgrace to all concerned, and we won’t
bother to describe it. Several days later, Pongwiffy, still very sore from the
special solvent she had used to remove the congealed mud from her left eye, legs
and, I’m afraid, bottom, lay in her sick bed and stared sadly at the second
letter from Scott Sinister. What it said doesn’t bear repeating.

“I don’t think I’ll have it framed,” she said sadly.

“I vouldn’t,” agreed Hugo.

“It’s such a pity it ended like that. Nobody got your Hugo Award. And he’ll
never speak to me again. When they chipped it off, one of his fangs came out,
you know. Oh Scott, Scott. It’s all my fault.” And Pongwiffy burst into tears.

“Cheer up, Mistress,” said Hugo. “’Ere. For you.” He handed Pongwiffy a little
box. In it was the Hugo award.

“Oh, thanks, Hugo,” said Pongwiffy, pleased. “You’re a good little chap. By
the way, did you take that solvent round to Sharky?”

“Ya, but she von’t use it. She says she vait and get her own. Still she not
speak to you.”

“Talk about bearing a grudge. Two days later, and she still hasn’t
forgiven me. You know what she is?”

“Vat?”

“Stuck-up,” said Pongwiffy. Which was true.

Sourmuddle’s two hundredth birthday was only a week away. Sourmuddle seemed
to have forgotten all about it, which was a funny thing considering that’s all
she ever seemed to talk about. It was probably because she had been wrong about
the date so many times she had given up hope of it ever arriving.