01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (4 page)

“Just a minute, Sharky,” hissed Pongwiffy, nose twitching. “That smell! That
beautiful smell. What is it?”

“Smells like a rubbish tip,” answered Sharkadder, trying not to breathe too
deeply.

“That’s it! That’s exactly what it is! I was brought up on one of those, you
know. Oooh, that smell… reminds me of my childhood. Do you think we could take
a little look?”

“What, NOW?”

“Please, Sharky. It would mean so much to me. Ah, please.”

“Oh—bother! Come
on
then, if you must,” begrudged Sharkadder.

Together they followed their noses to the source of the smell. It wasn’t far
away.

“What a sight!” whispered Pongwiffy, awestruck. “A rubbish tip under the
moon. Brings tears to the eyes.”

“Hmm. Very nice.” Sharkadder was fidgetting, wanting to get back
home to Dudley.

“What’s that over there?” Pongwiffy pointed. “There, look. No,
there,
idiot. Behind that pile of old mattresses. Left of the broken pram. Near the
rusty cooker. Surely you can see. Look, over by the cat food tins. Right of that
old carpet! There, see, it?
There!”

Sharkadder squinted. “What, that? You mean that broken-down old hovel?” But
Pongwiffy was off, running like the wind, as fast as her bent old legs would
carry her. When Sharkadder caught her up, she was standing in the doorway of the
broken-down old hovel.

The door was open—or, to be exact, it was lying amongst the weeds in a sea of
flaking paint, having finally parted company with its rusty hinges. Broken
windows sagged in their frames, and the roof was full of holes. A dreadful smell
of damp and decay wafted from the dark interior. Pongwiffy was inhaling the
stench, eyes closed in ecstasy.

“What
are
you playing at, Pong?” snapped Sharkadder crossly. “What’s
so special about an empty, smelly old hovel?”

Pongwiffy’s eyes opened and she smiled and blinked as though coming round
from a trance.

“Sharky,” she said, with a happy grin. “Sharky, my old friend. This is it.
The end of the line. I’ve found it. Welcome to my new home.”

“Well? How are you settling in?” asked Sharkadder a few days later. Pongwiffy
had popped in to borrow Sharkadder’s spare cauldron. Her own, of course, was
dented beyond repair. She was hanging around in the hope that Sharkadder might
offer some breakfast.

“Wonderfully,” said Pongwiffy. “I’ve nearly finished. I managed to rescue
lots of stuff from the cave. It’s lucky my Wand’s better. I’d never have been
able to lift all those boulders by myself. Of course, I didn’t bother with some
of it. It helps being next to the rubbish tip. I found all my furniture there,
you know.”

Strangely enough, although she tried to speak cheerfully, she sounded a bit
glum.

“I hope you’ve cleaned it up a bit,” remarked Sharkadder, who was sitting at a
cracked mirror, gently warming her set of hedgehog hair rollers over a candle.
Lipsticks and little bottles of nail varnish in hideous shades littered the
table.

“Clean it? Whatever for? It’s just perfect the way it is,” said Pongwiffy.
“Why don’t you come and see this afternoon?”

“Too busy,” said Sharkadder. “Dudley and I are working on a new spell.”

“Oh,” said Pongwiffy, disappointed. “Oh. Another time, then.” And she gave a
little sigh.

“What’s the matter, Pong?” asked Sharkadder, seeing her friend’s crestfallen
face. “I thought you loved your new hovel.”

“Oh, I do, I do. It’s just… well, to be honest, Sharky, I’m feeling a bit
lonely. It’s very quiet at the rubbish tip. I haven’t seen a soul in the last
three days.”

“Hmm. You know what you need,” said Sharkadder, diving after a cross,
over-heated hedgehog who had plopped from the table and was desperately making
for the door. “You need a Familiar. You’re the only Witch I know who hasn’t got
one.”

“I’ve got my flies,” said Pongwiffy, pointing. Buzz and Dave came zooming
back from the biscuit tin and circled loyally around the point of her tall hat.

“Flies? Flies don’t count.”

Buzz and Dave buzzed angrily. But she was right. Flies don’t count. A
Familiar, according to the dictionary, is, “A demon attending and obeying a
Witch”. Familiars, however, don’t have to be demons. They can be cats, owls,
crows, bats—anything you like, really, as long as they’ve got a bit of
intelligence. That puts the likes of Buzz and Dave right out of the running.
There’s so much to pack into a fly’s small body, there’s just no room for
intelligence.

“Apart from anything else, think of the time you’d save,” continued
Sharkadder. “Don’t you get tired of running your own messages and collecting
your own ingredients? Not to mention doing all your own spying.” Pongwiffy had to
confess that she did.

“There you are then! Stuck in that old hovel with only your Broom for
company. No wonder you’re fed up. You definitely need a Familiar. All the best
Witches have them. I don’t know what I’d do without darling Dudley. Put the
kettle on, and we’ll write an advertisement over a nice cup of hot bogwater. You
can put it in the Daily Miracle.”

Pongwiffy filled the kettle carefully. Sharkadder’s darling was perched on
the draining board next to the sink, crooning a sea chanty whilst sharpening his
teeth with a file.

We pushed him off the plank, miaw,

We clapped him when he sank, miaw,

Oh what a jolly prank, miaw

When Filthy Frank was drowned-O!

sang Dudley in a low growl.

“What a pretty tune, Dudley,” said Sharkadder. “I do love it when you sing.”

Pongwiffy accidentally sprinkled three drops of water on the tip of Dudley’s
tail. Only three little drops, that’s all, but you should have heard him!

“Ye cack-handed, clumsy old crow, I’ll hang ye from the yard arm! I’ll have
ye pulverized and thrown to the fishes, be danged if I don’t!”

“He likes you really,” said Sharkadder, rolling up the last hedgehog. “That’s
just his way of speaking.” She took a bottle marked Old Sock and dabbed some
behind her ears. “Want some?”

“No,” said Pongwiffy proudly. “I have my own built-in smell.” True. Compared
to Pongwiffy,
Old Sock
smells like a garden of roses.

“Now, we need a paper and pencil, then we must put on our Thinking Caps.”
Sharkadder bustled about in a businesslike way.

“I haven’t brought mine,” said Pongwiffy.

“Never mind, we’ll take turns with mine. Come to mother, Dudley, and sit on
my lap.”

Dudley stretched, yawned and thumped heavily on to Sharkadder’s bony knees. He
rubbed himself against her chin, purring loudly.

“Isn’t he sweet? Isn’t he a darling? He’s my Dudley. My cuddly-wuddly Dudley,”
cooed Sharkadder adoringly, picking hairs off her lipstick. “Of course, you’ll
never find a Familiar like Dudley, Pong. Not many Witches are so lucky.”

“No,” agreed Pongwiffy, hoping that her bad luck would hold. She certainly
didn’t want a Familiar like Dudley.

All that day they worked on the advertisement. The floor was a sea of screwed
up pieces of paper and broken pencils before they got it just right. Even the
Thinking Cap was fit for nothing, and had to be thrown away.

“It’s rather good, isn’t it?” said Pongwiffy many hours later, peering with
red, bleary eyes at the finished product.

“It’s brilliant,” agreed Sharkadder, who had done most of the work. “Read it
again. I could listen to it all night.”

WANTED FAMILIAR, Apply to Witch Pongwiffy, The Hovel, Dump Edge, Witchway
Wood. No time wasters.

Sharkadder stood up and began taking the hedgehogs from her hair. She placed
them tidily in a little box, where they lay in rows, still snoring.

“I’m sure that’ll do the trick, Pong. Good job you had me to help you.”

“It was,” said Pongwiffy gratefully. “Thanks, Sharky. Thanks for the meals too.
You’re a good friend.” And off she went to post it.

* * *

By the following night, Pongwiffy had forgotten all about her advertisement.
She was too busy preparing her supper to think about anything else. Her supper
was giving her problems. It was Toad-in-the-Hole. She had made a Hole—a nice
deep one in the lumpy grey batter. The trouble lay in getting the Toad to stay
in it. Every time she turned her back to reach for the salt, out its head would
pop again, a tetchy expression on its face.

“I’ve told you a hundred times. Get back down and
stay
down,” snapped
Pongwiffy, puffing up the fire with the bellows.

“Why?” complained the Toad, who liked explanations.

“Because you’re my supper, that’s why! Now, get back to that Hole!”

“Shan’t,” sulked the Toad.

Pongwiffy whacked it smartly on the head with a spoon. The Toad submerged,
muttering vague threats.

“Now then, what next? Ah yes. Lay the table.”

Laying the table wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Tottering towers of dirty
dishes reached almost to the rafters. They had been growing steadily taller all
week, for Pongwiffy, being a Witch of Dirty Habits, couldn’t be bothered to
clear them away. Her Wand was somewhere around. Probably on the table, buried
under the groaning piles of dishes. Some had green mould on them, the ones at
the top were festooned with cobwebs, and a family of cockroaches had set up
house in one of the tea cups. “Oh well,” said Pongwiffy with a frown. “Suppose
I’ll just have to clear these away.”

She stretched out a finger, and gave the nearest tower a little push. It
teetered for a moment, then toppled slowly, crashing to the floor in a nasty
mess of broken china and mouldy leftovers. Pongwiffy collapsed into the nearest
chair, exhausted. She wasn’t used to housework.

That was when the doorbell rang.

“Oh—botheration! Who’s that?”

Hastily she glanced at her reflection in a bent teapot, and rubbed a bit of
dirt into her nose. The doorbell continued to ring with an insistent,
irritating, teeth-on-edge jangling.

“Answer it! Answer it!” begged the Toad, who had a bad headache. Unable to
bear the racket, it plunged back into the batter and tried to relax.

“All right, all right!” snarled Pongwiffy, hobbling to the door and snatching
it open.

First, she thought there was no one there. Then, she saw it. A small, cute,
honey-coloured Hamster with pink paws was dangling by its teeth from her bell
rope. As it swung from side to side, the cracked bell continued to jangle harshly
inside the hovel.

“Here—hang on a minute! Get
down
from there!” ordered Pongwiffy
severely.

“Vat I do?” asked the Hamster with difficulty, speaking between
clenched teeth. “’Ang on or get down?”

“Get
down
!”

The Hamster dropped down, light as a leaf, nose twitching.

“Coo. Vat a pong. You are Pongviffy. Ya, I come to ze right place.” And the
Hamster scuttled past her into the hovel, leaving a trail of minute paw marks in
the thick dust coating the floor.

What a cheek! Pongwiffy was speechless.

“Is big tip in ’ere,” remarked the Hamster, staring around. “Don’t you not
never do no ’ousework?”

“Big
tip?
How dare you!” said Pongwiffy, finding her voice at last. “I
don’t know who you think you are, but I want you out of my hovel, this minute.”

“’Ugo,” said the Hamster, still looking around.

“I
beg
your pardon?
Me
go?” Pongwiffy couldn’t believe her
ears.

“Nein, nein! Is name. ’Ugo. Viz an H.”

“Well, look here, Hugo-with-an-H, I don’t know what you want, but…”

“I vant ze job.”

“Job? What job?”

“Vitch Familiar. I see advert in paper. I come for interview. So. Interview
me.”

And Hugo-with-an-H climbed up the table leg and settled himself comfortably
against the bent teapot, paws folded in his lap.

“I shall do no such thing. You’re not suitable. Goodbye.”

“’Ow you know zat till you interview me?” asked Hugo reasonably.

“I can tell. We Witches know these things. You’re just not the right type.
Traditionally speaking.”

“Vat is right type?” Hugo had found a pile of crumbs, and was busily stuffing
them into his cheek pouches.

“Well—cats, of course. Weasels, ferrets, stoats, that sort of thing. Bats.
Crows. Toads occasionally, if you can find an intelligent one.” Pongwiffy glared
spitefully at the Toad-in-the-Hole, who had its head stuck out as usual and was
listening with interest to the conversation. “The thing is,” she continued. “The
main
thing is, a good Familiar has to be ugly or wicked, or better still,
both. A good Familiar is
never
cute and fluffy. With a silly accent.”

“Meanink me?” enquired Hugo. He spoke mildly, but there was a dangerous glint
in his eye.

“Most certainly. Just look at yourself. You’re sweet and cuddly. To a
disgusting degree, actually. But then, you’re a Hamster. You lot are supposed to
be cute. Nice, gentle little things who live in cages and get tickled under the
chin, like this…”