01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (8 page)

* * *

“It’s a terrible idea, you stupid Hamster!” screamed Pongwiffy, the minute
they were at home and in private. “It’s all very well for you. You go making all
these rash promises, then I’m stuck with the consequences. A Famous Person from
the world of show business my foot. Do
you
know anyone like that? I’m
sure I don’t. Except for a monkey I once knew who joined a circus, but I believe
he’s retired.”

“No problem,” said Hugo with a wink. He was sitting in a cracked teacup,
making notes on the back of a postage stamp.

“Guess ’oo is at zis very moment ’olidaying at ’is castle retreat on ze uzzer
side of Vitchvay Vood.”

“How should I know? Who?”

“Scott Sinister. Zat’s ’oo. Zat’ll be anuzzer contribution to ze ’Amsters Are
Angry Cause, pliz.” Hugo had begun charging for Good Ideas.

“What?”
Pongwiffy ripped the sleeve off her cardigan in her excitement.
“Scott Sinister?
The
Scott Sinister? Star of a thousand horror movies and
my dreamboat?”

“Ze very same.”

“Oh, Hugo! Just imagine if Scott Sinister would come and judge our talent
contest! I’d meet him in the flesh! I’ve always loved him, ever since I was a
teenwitch. Oh, Scott, Scott.” Pongwiffy went into a trance, a soppy grin on her
face.

“Zere you are, zen. No problem.”

“But how will we get him to agree? I mean, he’s on holiday, isn’t he? He might
not want to. Oh Scott, Scott, I’ve lost you!”

“Nonsense. Ve persuade him.”

“How? Gold? He’s so rich he doesn’t need it.”

“Nein. Sumpsink better. Blackmail.”

“
Blackmail?
Blackmail my Scott?”

“Ya.”

Pongwiffy thought about it. “Hmm. Good idea,” she said.

“Zat’ll be twenty pee,” said Hugo.

Scott Sinister, Famous Star of stage and screen, and Pongwiffy’s dreamboat,
was reclining in a purple silk hammock by the side of the large, coffin-shaped
swimming pool which took up most of the castle grounds. He was wearing a gold
dressing gown with S S embroidered across the front. Expensive (but silly)
sunglasses shaded his Famous Red Eyes, gold chains dripped from his Famous White
Throat, and gold fillings flashed as he picked at his Famous Fangs with a gold
plated tooth pick. His Famous Feet nestled in fur-lined snakeskin slippers, and
diamonds the size of pingpong balls sparkled on his Famous Fingers.

To one side of him, there was a table piled high with rare delicacies—sweet
pickles from the Lost Isle of Pan Yan, bogberries from the Misty Mountains, mole
flavoured yoghurt, and a great bucket of gorilla ice-cream. On the other side, a
small grim faced Gnome in turban and swimming trunks held up a large crimson
umbrella to protect the Famous Flesh from the sun. The Gnome also waved a fan
around in a casual sort of way, giving the occasional slight clonk to the Famous
Nose.

“Look,
do
you mind! Why can’t you watch what you’re doing?”

“Okay, bud, okay,” said the Gnome, who was only temporary.

“I don’t know what’s happening to servants these days,” grumbled Scott
Sinister to the starlet who was gently dabbing at his brow with a cloth dipped
in perfumed water. “Badness knows I pay them enough.” He took a sip from a glass
containing something red with ice cubes, and gestured despairingly with a limp
white hand. “I mean, just look at those bodyguards. What a bunch. That’s what
comes of hiring the locals.”

The bunch consisted of several large Goblins in bobble hats, huge boots and
grubby, tight fitting dinner jackets. They stood around cracking their finger
joints, fiddling with their bow ties and muttering in low voices. A bent,
hump-backed figure in butler’s uniform creaked about collecting dirty glasses.
It was wearing a paper bag over its head(?). Two She-Goblins in blonde wigs
sprawled by the side of the pool, lumpy bodies stuffed into pink bathing
costumes, hoping to be in Scott Sinister’s next film.

Just then, the biggest Goblin came up, obviously bursting with news. Guess
who? Plugugly, no less! Small world, isn’t it?

“Scuse me, Mr. Sinister,” said Plugugly. “Dere’s a ’amster at de main gate.
Wants a word wiv yer.”

“A
Hamster
? Bad gracious, Goblin, who do you think I am? I’m on holiday,
remember? I have better things to do
than talk to rodents. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be rich and famous
and extremely bad looking? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s exhausting. That toothpaste
commercial was the last straw. I am tired, Goblin. Tired, weary, strained,
tense, jaded, fagged, drained and totally pooped. I hired you to protect me from
my adoring public, so go and do it! Hurry up, step on it!”

“Step on it? Right, sir.”

Plugugly bowed as deeply as his belly would let him. All the buttons burst
from his dinner jacket and rolled into the swimming pool. Plop, plop, plop, plop,
plop. Plugugly waddled away, looking vexed.

* * *

“Now, perhaps I can relax a little. Lulu, my darling, pass me one of those
marzipan frogs. No, on second thoughts, I think I’ll have a nap. I’ve already
been up two hours, how much more can my body take? But first, pass me that
mirror. I haven’t looked at myself for ages. I’ve told you before, Gnome, keep
that fan
moving
!”

Before Lulu could pass the mirror, Plugugly was back again, jacket flapping
messily and a grubby looking envelope in his hand.

“’Ate ter bovver yer again, Mr. Sinister, sir,” he said. “I tried ter step on
it, but it threatened to bite me. It give me a letter fer yer. It’s waitin’ fer
a—what were it again? Oh yer—Reply.”

“Stubborn little beast, isn’t it? Oh, give it here, then. Fan mail I
suppose.”

“In that case, fan yourself with it,” said the Gnome throwing down both
umbrella and fan and walking out in a huff.

“That’s right! Go sit by a pond
somewhere, it’s all you’re fit for anyway! That’s the last time I hire a Gnome.
I’d sooner be gnomeless. Ha ha, hear what I just said, Lulu?”

Pleased with himself, Scott Sinister slit the envelope with a filed
fingernail and took out a filthy piece of paper. His good mood didn’t last long.
In Pongwiffy’s best writing, the note said:

Deer Scott Sinister,

You don’t no me, but I am yore biggest fan, I have sin all yore films.
I liked you best as the daddy in The Mummy’s Curse. Now, heer is my rekwest.
Plese will you come and judge our talent contest in Witchway Hall next Friday. I
no you will agree to do this becos you are such a kind and wunderfull persun.
Also, I don’t think you would like to wake up tomoro morning and find yore
wunderfull swiming pool full of ded rats.

Yore bigest fan,

Pongwiffy (witch)

P.S. can I have yore autograrf?

“Blackmail! That’s what it is! These Witches
think they can get away with anything!” cried Scott Sinister, throwing down the
letter in a fit of pique.

“Oh, I dunno,” said Plugugly, picking it up and peering at it. “It’s dirty,
yer, but not exactly black. More grey. Yer, grey mail’s what I’d call it.”

He was quite surprised when he found himself at the bottom of the swimming
pool. But at least he found two of his buttons.

* * *

“I shall frame it,” said Pongwiffy happily, rereading the letter from Scott
Sinister for the umpteenth time that evening. “I shall hang it on the wall over
my bed and charge people to come and look. Just think, Hugo. He touched this
paper with his own hands. Oh, Scott, Scott.”

There was a knock on the door. Agglebag and Bagaggle had come to enquire if
it really was true that Scott Sinister had agreed to judge the contest, and
please could they see the letter.

“Yes, it’s true, and no you can’t,” said Pongwiffy. “Not unless you give me
ten pee each. Make that twenty and I’ll let you touch it.”

The twins humbly paid up and stood gazing at the letter in awe. It was
written on scarlet notepaper with gold edging, and said, in big black letters,

Dear Blackmailer,

I suppose so

yours sincerely

Scott Sinister

“It doesn’t say much, but I think he likes me,” said Pongwiffy shyly. “See
where he says he’s mine sincerely?”

The next week was a waking nightmare. Pongwiffy’s head was buzzing with all
the things she had to think about and organise, and her hand nearly fell off
with writing so many lists, all of which she lost.

“Hugo! Where’s the list of acts? Here it is… no, that’s a shopping list.
Oh bother, I’m going to have to make a list of these lists…”

Calmly, Hugo handed her the list of acts. It was in alphabetical order and
included the name of every Witch in the coven apart from Pongwiffy, who was the
organiser, and wasn’t taking part. It went like this:

Agglebag and Bagaggle: A Moosikal Dewet

Bendyshanks: Tap Dansing on Roler Skates

Bonidle: Koodunt Kare Less

Gaga: Mad Histirikal Laffing

Greymatter: A Pome

Macabre: Sumthing Scottish

Ratsnappy: Funy Jokes

Scrofula: Ventrillokwissum

Sludegooey: Impreshuns

Sharkadder: Mak-up Demonstrayshun

Sourmuddle: A Seekret Song

Pongwiffy examined it doubtfully. “You know, I’m not at all sure about Gaga’s
act. Mad, hysterical laughing. She does that all the time anyway.”

“Ah, but not in costume,” pointed out Hugo.

“Hmm. Where’s my list? The one with all my duties on?”

Hugo handed it to her. It said:

PONGWIFFY:

Stayg Manijer, Prodewser, Moosikal Direktor, Props, Program, Liting, Box Ofiss,
Compair, Publissity, Everything Else

“It’s no good,” said Pongwiffy, looking at it. “I simply can’t cope.” And she
couldn’t. The responsibility of it all and the thought that she was to meet
Scott Sinister in the flesh proved too much. She wasted a lot of time making a
frame for The Letter, then made herself sick with excitement and had to go to
bed. Hugo took over. He held a meeting with the other Familiars, but they didn’t
waste time making lists. Instead, they got right out and did the job—some of
them providing the brains and others the brawn. They organised the benches in
Witchway Hall, ordered the Brooms to sweep the stage, got the lights working,
stopped the curtains sticking, had the piano tuned, got the programmes and NO
GOBLINS posters printed, sold the tickets, ordered the ice-cream and booked the
band.

All these things could have been done by Magic if the Witches had been
prepared to put their minds to it—but they were far too busy rehearsing their
acts to worry about such dull, practical matters. The smell of greasepaint was
in the air, and they all had visions of receiving the Hugo Award from Scott
Sinister’s own hands (to thunderous applause, naturally).