The Pongwiffy Stories by Kaye Umansky

Author:Kaye Umansky [Umansky, Kaye]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

‘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 eclair, 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 any more.

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