01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (14 page)

“What a lot of trouble you’ve gone to, Bonidle,” said Sourmuddle happily, and
Bonidle flushed with pride.

Gaga’s present was a cardboard box containing some loose screws (she had
plenty of those), some orange peel (fertiliser for Sourmuddle’s tomato plants),
an egg which ticked when shaken and which Gaga thought would hatch into a cuckoo
clock, and some joke bat droppings. At least, Sourmuddle rather hoped that they
were
joke ones. At any rate, she said that she liked all the things, and
couldn’t wait for the cuckoo clock to hatch. Gaga was so pleased she had to rush
off and hang upside-down from a tree for a bit.

Macabre’s tartan hanky was a great success. Sourmuddle tried it out right
away, and didn’t mind a bit when her nose immediately became a riot of small red
and green squares, which didn’t wash off for a fortnight—Macabre’s Uncle again,
who also dealt in dyes.

“I like it,” declared Sourmuddle, examining her tartan nose in a mirror. “I
feel it’s me. Thanks, Macabre.”

Another triumph was Greymatter’s book of crossword puzzles, which Greymatter
had already thoughtfully filled in.

Ratsnappy’s stinging nettle plant would look just perfect on her coffee
table, declared Sourmuddle. And the bottle of home-made shampoo from Scrofula
was just what she needed, as her dandruff had recently shown alarming signs of
going away.

Sludgegooey’s sink plunger was duly admired, as was the set of lipsticks from
Sharkadder in six shades of green: Moss, Nettle, Seaweed, Mould, Bile and Scummy
Pond.

Sharkadder? Yes, you will be relieved to hear that Sharkadder had recovered
from her fainting fit of the night before, and was there with the rest of them.

Only Pongwiffy was absent, and the truth was that nobody had even noticed in
the excitement. Even if they had, it was unlikely that they would have cared
that much, they were all having far too good a time.

We care, though, don’t we? Perhaps we should leave the party and go and find
her. On second thoughts, don’t let’s bother, for something rather interesting is
about to happen.

The presents had all been unwrapped and Sourmuddle was sitting, glowing with
pleasure, amidst the wrapping paper, examining all her new things. Sharkadder
suddenly took command. She clapped her hands and called for silence.

“Tea next!” she announced. There was a burst of clapping and loud cheers, and
a surge towards the trestle tables.

“Hold it! First, a surprise. Are you ready back there?”

“Oui!” came a familiar voice from somewhere in the bushes. And from out of
those bushes, you’ll be astounded to hear, marched none other than Pierre de
Gingerbeard—and in his wake came two more Dwarfs carrying between them a large
stretcher on which was sitting:

THE CAKE!

A cry of wonder went up as the Witches saw The Cake for the first time. There
it sat, a great snowy mountain, every Witch hat and Broomstick in place and pink
bow crisply curled. The two hundred candles were alight, and it looked so
beautiful, the Witches were awestruck—especially Sourmuddle, who burst into
tears of gratitude. It was a moment of great drama—slightly spoilt, however, by
someone who chose that exact moment to crawl into the glade from the opposite
direction.

Who? Our Pong, of course—and a sorry sight she looked too. There were twigs
in her hair and rips in her blouse. The hem of her red gypsy skirt had come
undone and trailed in the mud. She had lost both earrings, her scarf, her shawl,
both castanets and twenty-three bangles. One of her boots had the sole flapping,
and she was so tired she was nearly on her hands and knees. A small bedraggled
Hamster limped at her side, cheek pouches sagging with exhaustion and golden fur
soaked with perspiration. Both of them looked just about all in.

“I’m sorry, Sharky!” croaked Pongwiffy. “I know you’ll never forgive me, but we
did our best. We’ve been trailing it all day, but we just couldn’t catch it,
could we, Hugo? Badness knows where it’s gone, we’ve looked everywhere…” And
then she stopped, eyes on stalks as she spotted The Cake on the stretcher. There
it was, all two hundred candles blazing merrily, not a crumb out of place.

“What are you babbling about, Pongwiffy?” said Sourmuddle. “You’re late for
my party. And why are you dressed as a scarecrow? It’s not fancy dress, y’know.
Now, stop trying to hog the limelight. This is my night, and I’m going to enjoy
it. Just let me feast my eyes for one moment on That Cake. My, that’s Some Cake,
that is.”

“This is my cousin, Pierre de Gingerbeard, Sourmuddle. You know, the famous
chef? He made it especially for you,” said Sharkadder.

“Well, I’m very honoured, I’m sure,” said Sourmuddle, and Pierre de
Gingerbeard gave a stiff little bow and said the honour was his.

“Blow out the candles,” urged the Witches when the cake was transferred from
the stretcher to the centre of the trestle table. Wiping away a tear, Sourmuddle
blew out the candles as the Witches sang ten more choruses of
Happy Birthday
and six of
For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.
It took that long because
you don’t have much puff when you’re two hundred.

“Hooray!” everyone cheered as the last candle flickered out. “Cut it now,
Sourmuddle!”

Sourmuddle took a sharp knife and solemnly cut the first slice.

“I now declare this tea open!” she bellowed, taking a vast bite—and with happy
cries, the Witches fell upon the trestle tables and began to stuff themselves in
earnest.

“Come on, Pong,” said Sharkadder kindly, going up and putting her arm around
her drooping friend. “Come and eat something before you fall down.”

“I don’t understand,” muttered Pongwiffy weakly. “Is that the same Cake?”

“Of course. Let’s go and grab a slice before it’s all gone.”

“But how? Why? We’ve been searching for it all day, but the Rolling Spell
made it go too fast, you see, and we just couldn’t catch up…”

“Rolling Spell? What, you used another of those wonky old spells of yours?
That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Well, you see, after I came round from my faint, I flew straight to the
Gingerbeard Kitchens to see if Cousin Pierre had a spare sponge or something,
and we were just talking about what an idiot you were when in it rolled, just
like that. A bit battered, of course, but Cousin Pierre soon repaired the damage.
I suppose it’s a homing cake. Like homing pigeons, you know. I’m surprised you
didn’t think of that. It’s obvious it’d make for home. Why, what are you doing,
Pong?”

“Crying,” said Pongwiffy, who was.

“Well, don’t. Not at a party. Everything turned out all right in the end,
didn’t it? No bones broken.”

“You haven’t seen my knees. I fell over at least a million times, and Hugo
got stuck down a rabbit hole, and then there was the bull…”

“Yes, well, tell me all about it when you get your strength back. Come on,
Pong, it’s a party. You love parties.” And firmly, she led Pongwiffy towards the
trestle tables.

After a cup of bogwater, Pongwiffy felt a little better. After seventeen
sausage rolls and four plates of trifle, she really began to perk up. By her
sixth dish of ice-cream, she felt ready to join in the games, and by her ninth
chocolate éclair, there was no holding her back.

But if Pongwiffy enjoyed herself, you should have seen Sourmuddle. Two hundred
years old she might have been, but you’d never have known it. She danced jig
after jig with Pierre de Gingerbeard until he finally begged to be allowed to
collapse on the spot. Then she danced a few on her own, only sitting down when
Agglebag and Bagaggle’s violins became so hot they couldn’t play them anymore.

She joined in all the party games and, owing to her incredible energy and
remarkable talent for cheating, won every prize. Nobody complained, because
after all, it was her birthday. Besides, everyone was busily being smarmy in the
hopes that they might be chosen as Grandwitch. So they smiled when Sourmuddle
tripped them up and pushed them off the chairs in Musical Chairs, laughed when
she blew squeakers in their faces, joined loudly in the songs about how great
she was and didn’t even complain when, in an excess of high spirits, she poured
trifle down the back of their robes. What a time Sourmuddle had!

She was still going strong when dawn broke, and had to be forcibly strapped on
to the cake stretcher and carried home, still giggling, and startling the early
birds with vigorous blasts of song. Pongwiffy, Hugo, Dudley and Sharkadder went
with her, to help Snoop get her safely tucked up in bed. They tipped the Dwarfs
who carried the stretcher with Pongwiffy’s Magic Coin—the one which always
returns to her purse ten minutes later. That was mean, but Witches are like
that. The Dwarfs tipped their caps and trudged off back to Crag Hill again,
where their master lay snoring with his head on the silver platter of cake
crumbs. It took them the whole of that day to cart him back up the Misty
Mountain. They were the only ones who didn’t enjoy the party.

* * *

It took ages to get Sourmuddle undressed and into bed, because of the
alarming amount of weapons and Magical bits and pieces they found all over
her—but finally it was done. Hugo and Dudley placed all her presents on her
bedside table, so that she could look at them whilst she went to sleep.

“I don’t see one from you, Pongwiffy,” Sourmuddle remarked, yawning.

“I haven’t given it to you yet,” explained Pongwiffy, thinking of the
gift-wrapped dustbin she had spent the last week scraping out. “I had other
things on my mind.”

“Pong helped me organise the Cake, you know,” said Sharkadder loyally. “She’s
worked very hard to make your birthday a success.”

“To be sure. You all have. I never had a better time in my life.”

“I—er—I suppose you’ll be thinking of retiring now,” said Pongwiffy. “Now
you’re two hundred.”

“Who, me? Retire? Not on your life. Not till I’m four hundred. I’ve always
said that. You’d better start thinking about planning my retirement party soon,
you know. There’s only another two hundred years to go. Good-night.”

And with that, she blew out her bedside candle and began to snore. There was a
silence. Then:

“Oh well,” said Sharkadder with a sigh. “Might as well go home, I suppose. I
don’t expect she wanted to say it in front of you.”

“Say what?” said Pongwiffy, following her out.

“Well, it’s obvious she was joking. Of course she plans to retire. I expect
she’ll tell me in the morning.”

“Tell you what?
What?”

“That I’m to be Grandwitch, of course. I mean, I’m the obvious choice.”

“Quite right,” growled Dudley.

“Obvious Choice? YOU?”
howled Pongwiffy. “Hear that, Hugo? Talk about
stuck-up. If anyone’s going to be chosen, it’ll be me. Who’s got the toughest
familiar? Eh? Eh?”

“True,” chipped in Hugo.

“What’s true?” snarled Dudley. “If it weren’t fer me bad back…”

“And who organised the talent contest?” howled Pongwiffy. “And who got the
cake from the Goblins? Me, that’s who.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” sneered Sharkadder. “You need somebody with good dress
sense representing the Coven. Not some smelly old tramp in a torn cardigan.”

“Smelly old tramp… are you referring to me?
D’you know the
first thing I’ll do when I’m Grandwitch? I’ll break friends with you, and have
you thrown out of the Coven!” raged Pongwiffy.

“Oh ha ha ha!” jeered Sharkadder, flouncing along. “Come on Dudley. I don’t
want you associating with that Hamster. It’s been badly brought up. When your
back’s better, you can teach it who’s boss.”

“’E can teach me now if ’e like,” snapped Hugo challengingly. “Come on,
vindbag. Vant a fight?”

“Oh, me back, me back…”

“Thrown out of the Coven! Thrown out of the Coven!” taunted Pongwiffy.

“Stinkpot. You stink, Pongwiffy, admit it. ’Scuse me while I put this clothes
peg on my nose…”

And so the arguments raged on and the insults flew as they all strolled home
through the early morning dew.

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