TALES FROM WITCHWAY WOOD: Crash 'n' Bang (6 page)

‘Yeah. Got stuff to do, mind. Got lunch later today with TT.’

‘You’re having lunch with tea?’ Sludgegooey was confused.

‘No, TT. The Thing.’

‘How long is that going to take?’

‘Be a while. There’s a lot to sort out. I’d stay and help clean the kitchen but . . .’

‘That’s all right,’ said Sludgegooey. ‘You sit and practise your tapping and I’ll do you another egg. You have to get your strength up if you’re going to bring home that cheque.’ She glared at the Broom. ‘I’ll use it to buy a decent vacuum cleaner.’

‘Mam?’ shouted Arthur through the bedroom door.

There was a long pause. Then a sleepy voice called, ‘Yeeeees?’

‘Are you taking a nap?’

‘Well, I was.’

‘I’m off to lunch shortly. Meeting up with the new manager.’

‘That’s lovely.’

‘I’ve burnt you some toast. It’s on a tray in the kitchen.’

‘All right.’

‘I might be late. There’s a lot to discuss.’

‘All right, son. You enjoy yourself.’

‘You remember I’ll be away on Friday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Want me to get anything in?’

‘No, I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about me.’

Dragon mums are very easy-going.

O’Brian sat on a bench in his workshop, mopping his brow and getting his breath back. He had been in overdrive since sunrise, completing what would normally have been a week’s work in record time. The shelves groaned under the weight of a thousand shoeboxes. His apron was off and his tools were put away. The
Closed
sign was up. It was goodbye cobbling, hello new career!

O’Brian hugged himself, thinking of all that lay ahead. Lunch in a café – that’d be a first. A trip to the coast. Playing in the Battle of the Bands.
Winning
the Battle of the Bands. And then – a whole new life. Stadiums. Hotels. Screaming fans. Fame. Travel. He would be living the Crash ’n’ Bang dream. Of course, his brothers would disapprove, but sometimes you just had to follow your heart.

The spellophone rang. Oh. That would be one of them, no doubt. Should he answer?

No. Best keep quiet about the trip to Sludgehaven. Right now, he could do without brotherly disapproval. They would pour cold water on his dreams. Try and make him stay home and cobble.

After fourteen rings, the spellophone fell silent. O’Brian was just about to relax when there came a gentle knock on the door.

‘Yes? What?’ shouted O’Brian. Was he never to be left in peace?

‘Please, sweet darling cobbler, will you mend my shoes?’ came a tiny voice. It sounded like silver bells played under starlight next to a rippling brook.

If the voice was anything to go by, it was obviously a Fairy. A beautiful little Fairy with delicate wings and a gauzy dress, holding a minuscule pair of glass slippers in her hand. Who could resist?

‘No!’ shouted O’Brian. ‘Away with you. I’m closed.’

‘But I’m a Fairy,’ said the silver voice.

‘So? I’m a Leprechaun!’

‘I heard you were a Pixie.’

‘
Similar hat!
’

‘No need to shout. Whatever you are, you’re a cobbler, aren’t you?’

‘
Was
a cobbler. I’m having a change of career.’

‘You’re supposed to help Fairies,’ said the voice, not quite so silvery now. ‘You’re supposed to do anything we ask. Then, if we feel like it, we graciously give you three wishes.’

‘And what would I want with three wishes?’ scoffed O’Brian. ‘You can keep ’em! I’ve got the Luck of the Leprechauns. I’m off to win the Battle of the Bands and get a recording contract!’

‘Is that so?’ The voice was really frosty now. ‘Well, I wouldn’t rely on it. Not with that attitude.’

‘And I suppose you think
you
know about music?’ sneered O’Brian.

‘Well, yes,’ snapped the Fairy. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I do.’

‘
Little People
music,’ jeered O’Brian. ‘That’s what you lot like. Well, I’ve moved on, see. I play Crash ’n’ Bang. That’s not for the likes of you Fairies.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you wouldn’t get it. Soppy
tippy-toe
music, that’s more your line.’

‘Well, that just goes to show how little you know. Now, about these shoes . . .’

‘Ah, get back to yer mushroom!’ roared O’Brian. ‘Fix your own daft little shoes!’

There was a shocked silence.

‘Anyway,’ came the icy voice after a bit, ‘anyway, you’ve lost the good will of the Fairies.’

‘So? Leprechaun Luck cancels out Fairy Magic any time.’

‘I think you’ll find it doesn’t.’

‘It does so. Away with you, I say!’

‘You’ll be sorry about this,’ said the Fairy ominously.

‘Oh, will I? I don’t
think
so. Go waggle your wings and don’t come bothering me again.’

There came the sound of tiny footsteps crossly pattering away.

‘Attaboy!’ said O’Brian to himself. ‘Told a Fairy to get lost. That’s Crash ’n’ Bang.’ He gave a little chuckle and began undoing the top three buttons of his jerkin. For some reason, they didn’t want to undo. He fought with them for ages, but the holes seemed to have shrunk or something.

That was only the beginning of his troubles.

Far away on a mountain, from inside the dark cave there comes a faint scratching sound. If you listen carefully, you will recognise it. It is the sound of . . .

Scribbling?

*
Anyone who has read Pongwiffy and the Holiday of Doom can't help but remember that trip.

Lunch

The cafe was a popular place with the residents of Witchway Wood, mainly because it was cheap. It was called
Tea And Chips
and was owned and run by the Yeti Brothers. Their names were Spag Yeti and Conf Yeti and they were large, hairy and rude to the customers, who they despised. Spag manned the tea urn. Conf chopped chips and fried them in grease. Both of them took turns in taking the money and being rude. It was a system that worked.

Right now the cafe was empty, but shortly the lunchtime rush would begin and it would be seething.

TT, wearing another crisp new Moonmad T-shirt today, in confident red, marched up to the counter. He was carrying a briefcase and had a spring in his step. Spag was measuring out tea and Conf was slicing potatoes. Both of them had their backs turned.

‘Not-a open,’ snarled Spag over his shoulder.

‘I know,’ said TT. ‘I just want to reserve a table for four.’

‘Oh yeah? You theenk-a thees posh hotel?’

‘I’ll pay extra,’ said TT importantly. ‘In fact, I’ll pay double if you put a
Private Function
notice on the door. I’ve got a business meeting, you see. We need a bit of quiet. To talk.’

Spag and Conf exchanged glances. They knew about the Thing’s reduced circumstances.

‘You got-a money?’ enquired Spag suspiciously.

‘Certainly.’ TT patted his pocket, which duly clinked. ‘I’ve gone into Music Management. I’ve moved up in the world.’ He stared around loftily. ‘In fact, I don’t suppose you’ll see me again, not after today. I’ll be dining in places where they put
flowers
on the table instead of grease. I’m only slumming it here because it’s late notice. Do we have a deal or not?’

‘OK,’ said Spag. ‘You pay double, is-a deal.
CHI-I-I-IP?
’ This last word was roared.

‘Yes, please,’ said TT humbly, dropping the lordly manner. The half banana hadn’t been much of a breakfast. He’d dearly love a chip.

‘Not-a you,’ sneered Conf as a bullet-shaped head poked out from the door behind the counter. It belonged to a very short, squat Troll wearing a soaking wet apron and a pair of yellow rubber gloves. In one hand, he held a dripping dishmop.

‘Uh?’ said the Troll called Chip.

‘Priveet-a Function notice. Steek it out,’ instructed Spag.

‘Uh.’

‘And fetch-a more potatoes,’ added Conf.

‘Uh,’ said Chip. And disappeared again. He reappeared with a large square piece of cardboard and waddled to the door. He was so short, his knuckles dragged on the ground. But he was wide. His bald head was set directly on his huge shoulders, without a sign of neck.

‘New dishwasher?’ enquired TT.

‘Yeah,’ said Spag.

‘Does he say anything else but Uh?’

‘No. He speak-a Trolleesh. Ees-a one-word-a language. What it to you?’

‘Oh, nothing. We’ll take this table by the window,’ said TT, pulling out a chair. He peered down at the filthy tabletop and set the briefcase on the floor, where it stuck.

‘Menu!’ growled Spag, slapping down a scrap of old cardboard with
TEA AND CHEEPSA
scrawled on it. ‘What time-a your rubbeesh so-called-a
beeesiness
friends-a come?’

‘Soon,’ said TT, staring through the dirty window. ‘In fact, here’s one now.’

Arthur came bustling up the track with a large folder under his arm. He arrived at the door at the same time as Chip, who was hanging up the notice. Arthur tried to squeeze by but Chip wasn’t having any of it. There was a bit of a stand-off.