01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (9 page)

Some of them took to wearing dark glasses and claiming that they wanted to be
alone, in between trying to get themselves photographed for the Daily Miracle.
Even Bonidle entered into the spirit of things, changing her act from KOODUNT
KARE LESS to UNICYCLING. No one had seen the unicycle, but she could be seen
from time to time limping home from some secret place swathed in bandages. All
the Witches kept their acts a close secret. You might have heard a few
mysterious noises coming from various caves and cottages as you strolled through
the wood, but that was all. Nobody really knew what anyone else was doing, and
the atmosphere was charged with tension and excitement. Pongwiffy, meanwhile,
lay in bed cuddling The Letter and counting the minutes.

“I make it only another two thousand eight hundred and eighty-two to go,
Hugo,” she said dreamily some days later. Hugo was putting the final touches to
the Hugo Award, which was a small statue of a Hamster holding a torch aloft. It
was rather good except that the gold paint tended to rub off (being cheap
cut-price stuff from Macabre’s uncle, who was in the trade).

“Two tousant eight ’undred and eighty-two vat?”

“Minutes to go. Till I meet Scott Sinister.”

“Oh ya? Sumpsink up wiz your math, I sink.”

“Why? How many do you make it?”

“Sixty.”

“WHAT? You’re wrong, you must be!”

“Is true. Is now fifty-nine. You ’ave been fast asleep for two days. Better
get out of bed. Tonight’s ze night!”

He was right. It was. Pongwiffy nearly died.

* * *

Witchway Hall was packed. News of the Great Talent Contest had spread far and
wide, and the tickets had been snapped up like hot cakes. A party of Skeletons
had arrived in a hired hearse, talking loudly in snooty voices about the poor
quality of entertainment on offer these days. Nevertheless they sat in the most
expensive seats.

There was a bit of fuss when ticket holders found their seats already
occupied by Ghouls who had sneaked in through the walls when nobody was looking,
but Dead Eye Dudley was the bouncer, and managed to sort it out to everyone’s
dissatisfaction.

A row of Banshees shrieked and howled to each other in the back row, passing
sweets and ignoring the glares from the rest of the audience. Fiends, Demons,
Trolls, Bogeymen, Werewolves and even a couple of Wizards (in disguise, of
course—it wouldn’t do to be seen at a Witch Do) packed the hall.

The band began to tune up. They were called the Witchway Rhythm Boys, and
consisted of a small Dragon named Arthur who played the piano, a Leprechaun
named O’Brian on penny whistle and Filth the Fiend on drums. They were a long
time tuning up, and the audience were getting restless.

“Why don’t you play a proper tune?” screamed one of the Banshees in the back
row.

“We just did,” said Arthur.

Meanwhile, Pongwiffy was biting her fingernails outside the hall. The Guest
of Honour and Judge of the contest still hadn’t arrived. Suppose he didn’t turn
up? Suppose he was ill, or his coach had broken down or he’d lost the address or
forgotten the day or… Suddenly, her heart leapt at the welcome sound of
drumming hooves and a cracking whip.

Into the glade galloped a team of plumed, snorting, sweating coal black
horses, towing behind them a long, low, gaudily painted coach. A huge star
decorated the door, and the number plate read S S 1. Scott Sinister had arrived!

Pongwiffy gave a muffled little scream of excitement as the coachman—a bent,
humpbacked figure with a paper bag over its head(?), shuffled round to the door
and wrenched it open with a flourish. Out stepped the great man, wearing an
imposing gold and scarlet cloak, black fingerless gloves (to show off the rings)
and a pair of rather silly sunglasses. Moonlight glinted off his sharp white
teeth and his swinging medallions.

Pongwiffy stepped forward and dropped a deep, wobbling curtsy. Her heel
caught in her hem, and there was a nasty tearing sound. It didn’t matter—holes
were a feature of the dress.

“Mr Sinister—may I call you Scott? I feel I know you so well. Scott, this is
indeed an honour. I am Witch Pongwiffy, your humble fan.”

“Hmm. So you’re the hag who threatened to put rats in my pool,” said Scott
Sinister coldly.

“I am,” confessed Pongwiffy. “But I wouldn’t have done it, you know. Not
really. I think you’re wonderful. It seemed the only way to get you here. So
let’s forget all about it, I don’t want anything to spoil this wonderful
moment.”

Just then, something did spoil the wonderful moment. Lulu the starlet stepped
from the coach, dripping with jewels and wearing a white evening gown. She was
followed by Plugugly, with whom, as we know, Pongwiffy has had dealings in the
past.

“My entourage,” said Scott Sinister haughtily. “I never go anywhere without
them.”

“Oh? Well that’s a pity, Scott, because, you see, we don’t allow Goblins in
Witch Territory.”

Pongwiffy gave her Wand a casual little wave, and Plugugly vanished with a
howl of protest. All that was left of him was a sad little pile of buttons and
an egg-stained bow tie, which fluttered to the ground like an ailing butterfly.

“Darling, who is this smelly old woman?” enquired Lulu, fluttering her
eyelashes.

“Pongwiffy. Cheerio,” said Pongwiffy rudely, waving her Wand again. Lulu
disappeared with a startled little scream. Her jewels remained behind, however,
and Pongwiffy picked them up and popped them into her pocket—just for
safekeeping, naturally.

“We have a rule about stuck-up hussies in nighties too,” she explained to
Scott Sinister, who had gone
really
pale. “Isn’t this nice? I’ve got you
all to myself.” And linking her arm with his, she propelled him firmly towards
the hall.

There was a great deal of oohing and ahhing, nudging and whispering and
scattered applause as Pongwiffy, bursting with pride, escorted the famous star
up the gangway to the seat of honour slap in the middle of the front row. You
could tell it was the seat of honour because it was the only one with a cushion.

Scott Sinister swallowed hard as he peered around at the assembled audience.
He was used to horrifying sights in his profession, but never had he seen such a
grisly mob as this. To give him his due, though, he kept his head, and managed a
limp wave and a bow or two before Pongwiffy shoved him impatiently into the
special chair. There he sat, chewing his nails nervously, wondering what he’d
let himself in for.

Pongwiffy, in her role as compere, scuttled up to the stage and began what
was intended to be a very long opening speech.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Fiends, Demons and Bogeymen, lend me your ears,” she
said importantly. “Thank you for coming. We’re very honoured to have here
tonight, Mr. Scott Sinister, who will judge the first ever Witch Talent Contest
to be held in the history of the universe.”

“Hooray!” enthused the audience, throwing crisp bags around. “It was me who
thought of getting him, you know,” went on Pongwiffy. “In fact, this whole
talent contest which you are about to enjoy was my idea, and I’d just like to
say a few words about how I…”

“Boo!”

“Siddown!”

“Gerronwivit!”

“Oh, all right,” said Pongwiffy sulkily. “Have it your own way. Is the first
act ready back there, Hugo?”

A muffled squeak came from behind the closed curtains.

“Right. Well, the first act is Agglebag and Bagaggle, who will play a musical
duet. Take it away, boys!”

The Witchway Rhythm Boys took it away and played a few bars of something
rather horrible. Pongwiffy scurried to her chair which was set in the wings, the
house lights dimmed, and the Great Talent Contest finally began.

The curtains creaked apart to reveal the twins standing side by side stage
centre, violins beneath their chins. They were wearing identical spotted scarves
tied gypsy fashion round their brows, identical patched swirly skirts and
identical terrified expressions of stage fright. There was a long silence, and
nothing happened. The audience sniggered unkindly.

“Get on with it!” hissed Pongwiffy from the wings. “Do something, idiots.”
Each twin gave an identical nervous cough and an identical nervous shuffle. They
nudged each other several times, and finally, much to everyone’s relief,
Agglebag spoke.

“This is a song about Witchway Wood. Sh-She wrote the words.”

“And sh-she wrote the music,” added Bagaggle.

“I sing the first verse, and she plays v-violin.”

“And I sing the second, and
she
plays v-violin.” They hesitated a
moment, and looked at each other.

“But first, we both play violin,” they chorused together, and did. It was
awful, but then it always was. After scraping away together a bit, Agglebag
lowered her violin and sang her verse in a throaty voice.

“Witchway Wood is really good,”
sang Agglebag.

“Doo witchy doo witchy doo,”
sang Bagaggle, scraping away.

“Much much better than Christmas pud,”
sang Agglebag.

“Doo witchy doo witchy doo,”
obliged Bagaggle, then they both leapt about
a bit, doing what they assumed were gypsyish movements, swirling their skirts
and stamping. Then Bagaggle sang her verse.

“Witchway Wood is where I’ll be,”
she trilled.

“Doo witchy doo witchy doo,”
carolled Agglebag, scraping. Then there was
a pause.

“I’ve forgotten the next, bit, Ag,” confessed Bagaggle, and burst into tears.

“Hooray!” thundered the audience in relief, and clapped their approval. The
twins, assuming the applause meant they had gone down well, curtsied shyly and
skipped off with their arms around each other while Hugo closed the curtains.

“Didn’t we do well?” they asked Pongwiffy.

“Hmmm,” said Pongwiffy doubtfully, and went to announce the next act. This
was Bendyshanks’ roller-skating tap dance.

The Witchway Rhythm Boys struck up, the curtains wobbled open, Filth played
an impressive drum roll, and Bendyshanks zoomed on stage. There was a lot of
smoke coming from her heels. In fact, they appeared to be seriously on fire. She
was wearing a crash helmet, and her bandy old legs sported red, white and blue
shin pads.

The audience only had a fleeting glimpse of the outfit, however, for not only
did Bendyshanks zoom on stage, she zoomed straight off it again, falling like a
stone straight into the orchestra pit where the Witchway Rhythm Boys were
playing gay Roller Skating Tap Dance Music.

Her head went straight through Filth’s drum and she had to be carried out
with her thin little legs in their jolly shin pads kicking feebly in the air. At
least everyone got a good look at the Special Custom Built Super Charged
Rollerskates With Attached Rocket Launcher, just before they exploded. When they
did, the audience went wild. Scott Sinister yawned and looked at his watch.

“Bonidle will now perform on her Unicycle,” announced Pongwiffy over the
uproar. Everyone sat up, interested, for nobody had yet seen the famous
Unicycle.

When it finally wobbled from the wings, with Bonidle precariously perched on
top, it was indeed an impressive sight, consisting mainly of an old car wheel
with a makeshift seat arrangement tied somehow on the top with string.

However, the best bit was undoubtedly the handlebars.

Everyone agreed about that. Bonidle had gone to town on these. They were
covered with fur and dripping with lights, bells, good luck charms and things
that bobbed up and down on elastic. They also appeared to be playing Jingle
Bells (a rather clever inbuilt stereo system).

The only thing they didn’t have was brakes. Bonidle hadn’t bothered to fit
any, having lost interest towards the end. This was rather a pity, because
there’s little point in wasting long, painful hours mastering the Art of Balance
unless you also master the Art of Stopping.

Bonidle merely rolled relentlessly onwards, ending up (you’ve guessed it) in
the orchestra pit, together with her Unicycle which promptly came adrift.
Another drum was ruined, O’Brian’s penny whistle got bent, Bonidle was carried
off for first aid treatment muttering, “Who cares anyway?” and the audience
brought the roof down. Scott Sinister closed his eyes.

“The next act is Mad Hysterical Laughing from Gaga,” announced Pongwiffy, when
order was once again restored. “I’m afraid.”

The audience looked puzzled. It sounded an odd sort of act.

It was. The curtain parted to reveal a huge cardboard box painted with wild,
crazy colours, sitting in the middle of the stage. From this burst Gaga, decked
in a very strange outfit of paper flowers, ribbons, and huge safety pins. She
had a clothes peg on her nose and a basket of bananas on her head. What looked
like large stuffed parrots swung from her ears, and her feet sported bright
yellow Wellington boots. The effect was most unusual.

The Mad Hysterical Laughing wasn’t, though. It was exactly the same as
always, just as Pongwiffy had predicted. After several minutes of watching Gaga
prance about cackling and waving her yellow boots, Pongwiffy gave a signal, and
the colourfully garbed performer, still doubled up with mirth, was forcibly
removed by two of the larger Familiars. The audience, after hesitating, decided
to give her a clap for originality, so that was all right. Scott Sinister,
however, was fast asleep. We’ll leave him like that, because he slept for a very
long time. He even missed the ice-cream in the interval.

“A poem by Greymatter, Our Very Own Thinking Witch,” bawled Pongwiffy. “Thank
goodness,” she added to Hugo. “A bit of class won’t hurt after that lot.”

The Brains of the Coven walked on stage, poem in hand. Her Witch hat had been
replaced by a mortar board. Grimly, she adjusted her glasses, and spoke in a
stern, headmistressy way, which had everyone hiding their sweets and paying
attention.