01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (11 page)

The Witches were determined that her party was going to be a Really Good Do.
It was an important occasion, not just because reaching two hundred deserves
celebration, but because Sourmuddle had often hinted that she intended to retire
at two hundred, which meant she would have to name her successor as Mistress of
the Coven.

All the Witches fancied the job, because of the perks. These included:
unlimited credit at Malpractice Magic Ltd., the shop where the Witches bought all
their equipment; a new Broom with a year’s free service, including a complete
bristle change and respray; a rather desirable two-up and two-down cottage in a
better part of the wood; three weeks paid holiday; trial offers of every new
magic powder that came on the market and an annual invitation to the Wizards’
Ball. Best of all, you could boss everyone around, which was the real reason why
everyone wanted the job.

Grandwitch Sourmuddle had noticed that everyone was avoiding her. Wherever
she went, Witches were whispering and going into huddles. All this talking
behind her back worried her so much that she became convinced that everyone was
plotting a mutiny against her. She got so nervous about it, she confiscated all
Wands, claiming that she wanted to check them for Wand rot. At least the enemy
was now deprived of their main weapons. She then barricaded herself into her
cottage and set about weaving complicated spells designed to protect herself
when the revolution came. This was good, because it meant the Witches were
free to get to work planning her surprise party.

There was a lot of quarrelling as usual, because all of them wanted to be
seen doing the most important job, which would be another point in their favour
when Sourmuddle decided who should step into her boots as Grandwitch.

The thing that caused the most argument was The Cake. After all, apart from
cards and presents it’s The Cake that makes a birthday seem like a birthday.
Each Witch was convinced that she was the best cook for miles around, and wanted
the glory of making Sourmuddle’s cake. The row was really beginning to get out
of hand when Sharkadder put an end to it by suggesting that the fairest thing
would be to have a collection and buy one, and that she would have a word with
Pierre de Gingerbeard, the famous chef, who just happened to be her cousin.

This commanded a respectful silence. Everybody had heard of the great Pierre
de Gingerbeard, author of
Buttered Snails and Other Tales.
Why, even the
Wizards begged him to cook for their banquets! Fancy Sharkadder being related to
him. Even Pongwiffy was impressed, and glad that she and Sharkadder were best
friends. Yes, they were friends again. Pongwiffy unravelled one of her old
cardigans and knitted Dudley a blanket for his cat basket. He refused to use it,
but the thought was there, and Sharkadder’s heart had melted in no time.

“So it’s decided, then,” said Sharkadder. “I’ll go and order it tomorrow. You
can come with me, Pong.”

“Oh thanks, Sharky,” beamed Pongwiffy. “I’d like that.” After all, helping
order The Cake was an important job.

So the final list was drawn up of who should be responsible for what. It went
like this:

Agglebag and Bagaggle—Music

Bendyshanks and Bonidle—Decorashuns

Gaga—Crackers, Crazy Hats

Greymatter and Macabre—Games

Ratsnappy, Scrofula and Sludgegooey—Food

Sharkadder and Pongwiffy—The Kake

And everyone was happy. Until the collection hat came round, that is. But
then, you’d expect that, wouldn’t you?

* * *

“Ooo? Ooo deed you say you are?” The ancient, barrel-shaped Dwarf with the
tall white hat and the famous curling ginger beard peered at them with
suspicious little curranty eyes. He sat at a small table in the middle of the
great Gingerbeard Kitchens, stumpy little fingers nimbly moulding green
marzipan frogs which he carefully placed in fancy boxes. They were so lifelike,
those frogs, you could almost imagine them leaping out of their little paper
nests and straight into your mouth.

“Sharkadder, Cousin Pierre,” explained Sharkadder for the third time. “I used
to sit on your knee. At family get-togethers.”

“Seet on my knee? You? Ees a joke, oui?”

“Well, of course, I was little at the time. Look, surely you remember…”

* * *

Pongwiffy shuffled and whistled a little tune. The truth is, she was
embarrassed. Early that morning, she and Sharkadder had set off for the
Gingerbeard Kitchens. That’s the name given to those huge caverns lying deep in
the heart of the Misty Mountains where Pierre de Gingerbeard, famous chef, rules
O.K.

It was a long climb, not made easier by the fact that they had to carry their
Broomsticks, daytime flying being strictly forbidden. As they had puffed up the
steep slope, Pongwiffy had gaily prattled on to Sharkadder about how wonderful
it was that Sharkadder was related to the famous chef, and why hadn’t she
mentioned it before, it wasn’t like her to be so modest, etc. etc.

Sharkadder had got quieter and quieter, and finally confessed that actually,
they weren’t
that
closely related. Pongwiffy remarked that cousins were
quite close. Sharkadder said it depended on how many times removed. Pongwiffy
asked how many times removed. Sharkadder said she’d forgotten, but a few times.
Pongwiffy pressed for the exact number of times. Sharkadder said twenty-four,
actually, but she always sent him a Christmas card, and she was sure he’d
remember her. Pongwiffy announced that she wanted to go home. Sharkadder sulked.
Pongwiffy sulked harder. Sharkadder went all sad and finally burst into tears,
so in the end Pongwiffy had agreed to accompany her, more, it must be confessed,
because of the wonderful smell of baking wafting down the mountain, than any
thoughts of loyalty or friendship.

So there they were in the famous Gingerbeard Kitchens. Everywhere was hustle
and bustle, with sweating Dwarfs stoking the great ovens into which went huge
trays of pies, tarts, loaves, and cakes. More Dwarfs scurried to and fro with
trays of éclairs, doughnuts and cherry slices balanced on their heads. Massive
vats of chocolate bubbled and boiled, stirred and fussed over by the chocolate
chefs; pastry chefs were pummelling dough with huge red hands; buckets of thick,
rich cream were lined up half submerged in troughs of cool water; sacks of flour
and sugar were being heaved about; and shelves groaned under the weight of big
pots of jam. The air was redolent with the most wonderful, warm, sugary, slavery
baking smell. Pongwiffy sniffed and drooled, desperately hoping that Pierre de
Gingerbeard might offer them a few samples. But he hadn’t so far.

“You see, my mother’s aunty was your father’s nephew’s niece’s fifth cousin
twice removed on my granny’s side…” Sharkadder was explaining again, wriggling
uncomfortably as the sceptical little currant eyes bored into her.

“We are rrrelated? You are a cuzain of mine?”

“Yes. Isn’t it fun?” said Sharkadder with a merry little laugh.

“So,” grunted Pierre de Gingerbeard, continuing to mould the marzipan frogs.
He was obviously a genius. Not only was he able to create tiny miracles with his
thick, stubby fingers, he had the right sort of accent.

“So. We are rrrrelated. We are cuzains, twenty-fourrr times rrremoved.
And you must be zat nasty leetle weetch keed ’oo used to pull my
beard. Ze one ’oo sends me cheap Chreestmas carrrds and drops ’ints about ’ow
much you would like a free puddeeeng. Oui?”

“Mmmmm,” said Sharkadder uncomfortably, with a sideways look at Pongwiffy.

“Hum. Well, Cuzain Sharkaddaire. To what do I owe ze honaire of zees veesit?
You are steel ’oping for a puddeeeeng? Or ’ave you come to sponge a sponge,
huh?”

“No, not a sponge,” began Pongwiffy.

Sharkadder interrupted. “Sssh, Pong. He’s my relative. No, not a sponge,
Cousin Gingerbeard. A Cake. A Very Special Cake, actually. And we’ve got the
money to pay for it. It’s for Grandwitch Sourmuddle, you see. It’s her
two-hundredth birthday soon, and she’s going to retire. We hope.”

“A two-hundredth birthday cake, you say?” Pierre de Gingerbeard looked
thoughtful. “Now, one of zose I ’ave not made een yearrrs. ’Ow beeg you want
zees cake?”

“Oh, big. Ever so big. It’s got to be special, you see.”

“Uh, huh. A beeg, reech fruit cake, oui? Weez thick yellow marzipan and snowy
white iceeng, decorrated weez little weetch ’ats, and a beeg pink ribbon, and
candles and beautiful writing saying ’appy birthday, oui?”

“That’s what we had in mind, yes.”

Pierre de Gingerbeard closed his eyes and seemed to go into a trance.
Pongwiffy just had time to snatch a box of frogs and a couple of doughnuts from
a passing tray and shove them under her hat before his eyes snapped open again.

“Such a cake only Pierre de Gingerbeard can make,” roared the genius, fists
clenched above his head. “I weel crreate zees cake for you, Cuzain Sharkaddaire,
not because you are my cuzain twenty-four times rremoved, but because I adore to
make two-hundredth birthday cakes, and I don’t get ze chance often. Zees cake,
Cuzain Sharkaddaire…” he paused for effect. “Zees Cake Weel Be My
Mastairepiece!”

A week later, and the day before Sourmuddle’s party, Pongwiffy and Sharkadder
were again in the Gingerbeard Kitchens, staring in awed wonder as Pierre de Gingerbeard unveiled the masterpiece.

“Voila!” said Pierre de Gingerbeard. “Get ze load of zat, zen!”

Pongwiffy and Sharkadder gaped at the creation, and broke into spontaneous
applause. It was wonderful. It stood in all its glory on a silver platter, big
as a dustbin lid, mouth-wateringly magnificent, truly the Cake of All Cakes.

Think of that cake you once saw in a baker’s window, the one you drooled over
for hours before being dragged off home and made to eat your cauliflower. Now
forget it. Compared to Sourmuddle’s Cake, that cake of your dreams is the sort
of thing you could whip up out of a packet in half an hour.

The icing alone on this Cake would put the snowy wastes of Greenland to
shame, so dazzling was its whiteness. The sides were decorated with fine trellis
work with never a drip, blob or wobble. Two hundred little sugar broomsticks
were positioned around the edge, and two hundred small black candles were placed
cleverly on the top, surrounding the piped words,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOURMUDDLE,
TWO HUNDRED GLORIOUS YEARS.
Two hundred tiny witch hats had been cunningly
fitted on as well, and a huge pink bow added the final touch. What a cake!

“Wow!” breathed Pongwiffy and Sharkadder together. “Wow.”

“Eet ees, as you say, wow,” agreed Pierre de Gingerbeard, wiping away tears
of emotion. “Ees work of art.”

“Cousin Gingerbeard, you’re a genius,” crowed Sharkadder. “There’s only one
thing that bothers me.”

“I know what you’re going to say, Sharky,” agreed Pongwiffy. “How are we
going to get it home?”

“No. How much discount do I get? Seeing I’m family?”

* * *

In the finish, they got it home by Magic. Struggling down the mountain with
the huge Cake was a daunting prospect, as the sun was setting and shortly it
would be dark. It was too big to balance on a Broomstick, so that was out.
Delivery seemed out of the question, as immediately after Sharkadder’s query
about discount, Pierre de Gingerbeard had passed out. Probably sheer creative
exhaustion. Anyway, right now he was being carted off to bed on the only
stretcher large enough to bear The Cake. It would seem rather ungrateful to
insist that he be tipped off.

Magic had to be the answer. The trouble was, their Wands had been
confiscated. They both racked their brains for an old spell which didn’t need
one in order to work. Pongwiffy, after much thought, finally came up with an
ancient, dimly remembered, Spell of Transport.

“Are you sure it’ll work?” said Sharkadder dubiously. “I don’t trust those
old spells. Unreliable. And are you sure you can get it right?”

“Positive. I learnt it at school. You never forget what you learn at school.
Now, where do we want to keep The Cake?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere safe. We don’t want anyone to see it before tomorrow
night, else it’ll spoil the surprise.”

“What about my garden shed?” suggested Pongwiffy. “It’s got a big padlock, and
no one’ll think of looking there. And I’ll be nearby to guard it.”

You didn’t know Pongwiffy had a garden shed, did you? Well, she does. She
uses it to grow toadstools from seed, and sometimes locks the Broom in it when
it gets on her nerves.

“Hmm. All right,” agreed Sharkadder. “You’re sure it’ll be safe?”

“I’m sure. Right, here goes. How did that spell go again? Oh, yes, I
remember…”

“Look, if your spell harms so much as one crumb of that Cake…” threatened
Sharkadder.

“It won’t, it won’t. I know it now. Listen, you might learn something.”