Witch Baby and Me Page 7

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Chin,’ he says respectfully, ‘but I have never before met someone who has not heard of the Internet.’

  The Chin’s eyes swivel back and forth, looking desperately for an escape route. What on earth does this man mean? Having lived on a mountaintop all her life, she has no idea what this dreadful human is on about. If only she was back home, she’d throw him on the fire and that would shut him up. Where has the Nose got to? She seems to be taking for ever to sneak the crisps into a bowl where they can be eaten by those pesky blue-moon girls.

  ‘Surely, Miss Chin, you must know about e-mail?’

  The Chin flutters her eyelashes and tries to pretend that of course she knows what e-mail is, has hot and cold running e-mail in her house, never leaves home without a big bag of it by her side . . . but Mr Harukashi is not to be put off so easily. He seizes the Chin by the hand and begins to haul her backwards and forwards as if she was a sack of coal.

  ‘Forgive me, but I love this music, Miss Chin,’ he explains, grinning madly as he hops from foot to foot. ‘So good for dancing, yes? You also like to dance, Miss Chin?’

  So that’s what he’s doing, the Chin realizes, stopping herself just in time from turning Mr Harukashi into a toad. Where, oh where has that blasted Nose got to?

  Someone has hauled Dad’s speakers into the garden and loud music fills the air. This is definitely one of the best parties we’ve ever had. There are candles everywhere, inside and out, and our new house looks amazing – like something out of a fairy tale. A very LOUD fairy tale. I even saw a toad hopping around, but there’s no way I’m going to kiss it to see if it’ll turn into a handsome prince. There’s a very old lady with an enormous nose sleeping in a corner of the kitchen, and no one is paying the slightest bit of attention to what we’re doing. This is just as well because Vivaldi and I are having a competition to see how many prawn-cocktail-flavoured crisps we can eat in three minutes. We’re timing ourselves with Mum’s egg-timer.

  Pretty soon we’ll move on to drinking something fizzy and green. After that, we’ll probably run around and bounce up and down as if we have springs in our heels. Actually, we’d better not bounce. If we do that, we will both definitely be sick. Not a good way to start a friendship.

  PARTY!

  Before that happens, we have to eat our way through a mountain of prawn cocktail crisps. Unfortunately the mountain doesn’t seem to have got any smaller even though Vivaldi and I have been steadily munching for ages. When we began this competition, we had to get rid of some weird-looking green crisps that shouldn’t have been in with the prawn cocktail ones. The green crisps don’t count in our competition, so there was no way we were going to eat them as well. I dumped them in another bowl along with Mum’s horrible parsnip-and-broccoli-flavoured crisps. I feel as if I’ve been eating crisps since dinosaurs walked the Earth. I feel as if I’ve never eaten anything other than crisps. I feel like I’m going to explode if I have to eat anoth—

  Bzzzzzzt, goes Mum’s egg-timer.

  ‘Righfff,’ I say, swallowing with difficulty. It’s funny, but I used to like prawn cocktail crisps. Ten minutes ago I loved them. But not any more. ‘Time’s up. That was two hundred and six. Your turn.’

  Vivaldi takes a deep breath and prepares to try and beat my stunning score. I don’t think she’s got a hope. Her last score wasn’t even close. One hundred and eighty-seven. And with each round of our crisp-cramming competition, we’re growing less and less hungry. In fact, we’re both full up now. To win, Vivaldi’s going to have to finish all of the crisps piled high in the bowl. When I look at her, I can tell that she doesn’t think she can do it.

  ‘Ochhh, Lily . . . I, um, don’t feel too great.’ Vivaldi’s face has turned pale. Uh-oh. We haven’t even had the green fizzy juice yet. Bit early to give up, surely?

  Oh, dear. Apparently not.

  Pretending to be asleep on the other side of the kitchen, the Nose is watching the crisp-eating competition through half-shut eyes. She is beside herself with glee. Judging by the awful sounds, the blue moon girl must have eaten some of the crisps. Serves her right, thinks the Nose unkindly. Now she’ll be ill for days and days, and by the time she gets better, she’ll never want to clap eyes on Lily or precious Witch Baby ever again. Lily, in her turn, will never want to see Blue Moon girl again. Not when Blue Moon girl smells like Decomposing-Seal-Crossed-With-Stinky-Cheese girl. For three months, all Blue Moon girl will have to do is breathe and flowers will wilt, trees will drop their leaves and grown men will turn pale and run away. For once, things have worked out perfectly. The Nose yawns and stretches.

  Her work here is done. Time to round up her Sisters and head for home. The secret of their Witch Baby is safe . . . for now.

  The Nose stands up. Remembering that she’s supposed to be a party guest, she totters over to the table to see if there’s anything good to eat. To her horror, she catches sight of something familiar in a bowl. The Nose can hardly believe her eyes.

  Lying on top of a pile of ordinary crisps are the ones. The Nose counts rapidly. Not a single one has been eaten. Whaaaat? Before she can stop herself, the Nose gives a howl of rage, then rushes out of the kitchen to find her Sisters.

  Poor Vivaldi. Poor me, too. No wonder that old lady with the big nose had to leave the room in a hurry. If there’s anything I hate more than being sick, it’s hearing somebody else doing it.

  I wish Vivaldi had reached the sink in time.

  Just then, Daisy totters into the kitchen. She takes one look at the prawny puddle on the floor and turns pale. Actually, I’m feeling a bit pale, too.

  ‘Woss at?’ Daisy demands, wobbling closer to Vivaldi’s puddle, all the better to examine it.

  Vivaldi groans.

  Daisy squats down and peers into the puddle hopefully, as if there might be something wonderful floating in it.

  ‘WOSS AT?’ she bawls, and I’m just about to answer when a familiar black shape bounds across the kitchen, tail wagging wildly. WayWoof! He’s so pleased to see us. Seconds later, his smell appears; today it’s extra-cabbagey. Immediately I have an awful thought. Because WayWoof is invisible to everybody except Daisy and me, Vivaldi will think the source of the terrible smell is me.

  She’ll never want to see me ever again. And that’s before she’s even found out what musical instrument I play.1 Brain racing, I try to think up an excuse for the smell, but no words come out of my mouth. How on earth am I going to explain about WayWoof? Inside my head, I hear myself make a lame excuse:

  It, it’s not what you think, Vivaldi. The dreadful smell isn’t me. I DID NOT DO THAT WHIFF. Our dog did that. Well, actually, he’s my sister’s dog. You can’t actually SEE him because he’s her . . . uh . . . invisible dog—

  Oh, dear.

  Vivaldi won’t even look at me. She’s feeling better, though. I can tell, because her face isn’t pale green any more and she’s smiling. Sadly, she’s not smiling at me. She’ll probably never smile at me again. At least, not without holding her nose. She squats down beside Daisy. Surely she’s not about to peer into her own puddle?

  ‘Here, girl. C’mere, girl. Here. Come here, clever girl.’

  WayWoof’s ears twitch and he looks up. He’s obviously torn between sniffing the puddle and sniffing Vivaldi’s outstretched hand.

  Tough choice.

  Being a dog, WayWoof has a quick snuffle in the puddle, then trots across to Vivaldi. With a sheepish expression on his face, he slumps beside her, rolls over onto his back and presents his tummy for rubbing.

  ‘Ahhhhh, you big sook,’ Vivaldi says, reaching out to rub him.

  Hang on. Wait a minute.

  ‘You – you can see him!’ I gasp. ‘How can you see him?’

  ‘See who? D’you mean her?’ Vivaldi ruffles WayWoof affectionately. ‘Lovely dog, by the way. What’s she called?’

  She? But . . . but I thought WayWoof was:

  a) invisible

  and

  b) a boy.

  Mind y
ou, everything I know about dogs could be written on one side of a prawn-cocktail-flavoured crisp, but Vivaldi looks as if she’s been around dogs all her life. I don’t know her well enough yet to ask if she has ever met any invisible dogs before, but if we become friends, I’ll make sure I find out. Vivaldi’s found WayWoof’s ticklish spot behind her ears and WayWoof wriggles in delight, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, trying to lick Vivaldi’s hand.

  Daisy thinks this is all too funny for words.

  ‘Ahhhhhh,’ she coos, reaching up to pat Vivaldi’s arm.

  Vivaldi coughs and says, girl. You could use a wee bath, though.’

  ‘Dust hadda baff,’ Daisy informs us.

  ‘Not you, littly. The dog. She’s a bit whiffy.’

  That’s funny. I was thinking exactly the same thought, but ‘a bit whiffy’ doesn’t even come close. For some reason, WayWoof is extra-super-maxi-ultra-specially pongy plus-plus-plus today. I can smell rottencabbage, cheesy milk and sweaty sock plus the faintest wisp of Just as I think, Things can’t get much worse, I hear shouts and shrieks coming from the hall. Vivaldi’s eyes grow wide, and Daisy’s thumb creeps towards her mouth. I don’t dare look, just in case the loud voices belong to people fleeing for their lives from the Real Gatecrashing Witch of Arkon House.

  * * *

  1 Like I may have said before, don’t ask.

  Fifteen:

  Totally barking

  THANKFULLY, THIS ISN’T the case. There’s an old man with a pink face standing on the doorstep yelling, ‘THE DOGS! Lucinda – they’re loose! The DOGS are out!’

  Then he clutches his chest and sags against our front door as if he’s about to fall over. I recognize the lady from the doghouse as she rushes to his side.

  ‘HENRY!’ she shrieks. ‘What is the matter? Whatever do you mean? I locked the DOGS up before I left. They can’t have escaped.’

  Henry takes a deep breath, but before he can say a word there comes the unmistakable sound of barking.

  Uh-oh. This is not good. Wild dogs rarely get invited to parties. We certainly didn’t invite them to ours. Mainly because they would eat all the food.

  They’re coming closer. Sounds like a huge number of them. There must have been at least ten of them in the doghouse. YIKES. Ten of them coming our way. Will anyone be brave enough to try and stop them? I doubt it, especially since one of them is Bertie, the rug with fangs. Bertie who wanted to eat me. Bertie who Daisy froze.

  Oh, help. Can’t their owners do something?

  ‘Call them orf, Lucinda,’ Henry bawls. ‘They’ll listen to you.’ But Lucinda isn’t listening. She’s struggling back into her coat and fishing in her pockets for something.

  ‘BOTHER and blast it. Didn’t bring the whistle,’ she roars.

  Just then, a familiar black shadow hurls itself past me and sneaks invisibly through the crowd. WayWoof to the rescue! She stops beside the table with all the food on it and sniffs. Sadly, it begins to dawn on me that WayWoof hasn’t come to rescue us from the dogs. She’s come to rescue the food. Great. Thanks a lot, WayWoof. Then, all of a sudden, WayWoof seems to become aware of the not-so-distant barking. Her head comes up out of a bowl of chicken salad, and her ears twitch. She makes a sudden dive back into the hall, just as the dogs arrive on our doorstep.

  Before I can say, Help yourself to the horrible green crisps, we think they smell revolting, dogs are pouring into our hall to stand in a panting huddle surrounded by shrieking guests.

  ‘No. Don’t jump up. Baaad dogs. SIT!’ Vivaldi roars.

  ‘DOWN, boys! Get DOWN!’ shrieks Lucinda.

  ‘HEEL, you brutes, I say HEEL,’ bawls Henry.

  ‘OUT!’ yells Mum. ‘Get them OUT!’ and then, as if she’s just remembered that she’s meant to be a good host, even if this includes being polite to guests’ pets, she adds, ‘PLEASE?’

  But the dogs ignore everyone.

  They don’t even pay any attention to the horrible green crisps.

  They bark and howl and bare all their teeth and look about as scary as it is possible to look without sprouting horns and tentacles. In the middle of all those yellow teeth, I recognize Bertie. He’s easy to spot in a crowd, since he’s so huge his head sticks up above all the others.

  Oh, no, no, no. He seems to be looking for something.

  Please, let it not be me.

  Sixteen:

  Starring WayWoof

  OVER THE DIN of dogs and guests I can hear Mum shouting, ‘The food. Keep them away from all the food. Get OUT.

  Then there’s a foghorn roar from Lucinda: ‘DOWN, boys. HERE, boys. Come to Mumsy.’

  Gosh. Lucinda is so loud. Then I hear Mum’s blow-the-windows-out roar.

  ‘SHUT THE KITCHEN DOOR, LILY. SHUT THE DOOR NOW.’

  Wow. Now that was loud. That wa—

  ‘LILY. DO IT NOW.’

  To hear is to obey. I spin round to do as I’m told, but I’m too late. A tidal wave of teeth and tails surges towards me. I’m going to die. I brace myself for but to my relief, it doesn’t happen. The vast dog-tide washes around, over and past me, into the kitchen.

  The dogs swirl around the table with their tails thumping against chairs and cupboards. Any minute now, they’ll work out that there’s tons of food piled on the table. About two seconds later, they’ll eat the lot. Even the cakes. Dogs don’t care – they’ll eat anything. But Mum’s cakes are way too good for dogs. Coffee and walnut cake, carrot cake, chocolate meringues, strawberry Victoria sponge, apricot almond cake, plum and marzipan cake . . . I can’t bear it. Are they all doomed to vanish down the throats of Bertie and his friends?

  Maybe WayWoof will come to the rescue. After all, she is our dog. She ought to be defending our house from the invaders, not sitting down and . . . and licking her bottom. Why is she doing that now? That is disgusting. She even looks as if she’s thinking, Mmm, hmmm. Yum, yum. My, this is good.

  Obviously, WayWoof must have failed her How-To-Be-A-Good-Dog exams. I can just imagine her getting the wrong answer to every one of her exam questions.

  Q. Invaders have stormed your kennel. What do you do first?

  A. Lick my bottom.

  Q. Your Humans are in danger and what do you do?

  A. Lick my bottom.

  Q. All the food in your kennel is about to be stolen. What are you going to do about it?

  A. Ooooh, that’s tough. Er. I know. Lick my bottom.

  For some reason all the dogs are now gathered round WayWoof in a panting huddle. WayWoof looks up, realizes that she’s the centre of attention, and instead of being deeply embarrassed and apologizing for being so revolting, she heaves a huge sigh, bends back down and carries on. Seeing this, Vivaldi pushes her way through the dogs till she reaches WayWoof’s side.

  ‘Is your dog in season?’ she bawls, over the din.

  In season? I had never given it much thought. Do dogs have seasons?

  ‘I suppose WayWoof’s kind of summery,’ I roar, adding, ‘Hot, sticky . . . loads of flies . . . er, why do you ask?’

  Vivaldi stares at me, puzzled, then she grabs WayWoof by her ruff and begins to drag her out of the back door.

  ‘I MEAN,’ she yells from the garden, ‘is Your Dog On HEAT?’

  I never have a chance to answer that. The massed roar from WayWoof’s ten hopeful husbands provides all the answer anyone could ever need.

  All of a sudden, the kitchen empties out. WayWoof and Vivaldi are sprinting across the garden, fleeing the dog pack. All ten dogs are falling over each other in an attempt to catch up. I don’t think it’s Vivaldi they want. It’s WayWoof. She’s the dog-magnet. Wherever she goes, the dogs will follow.

  ‘Ways WayWoof?’ Daisy demands, adding in a rather cross voice, ‘My WayWoof.’

  Uh-oh. In a way, she’s right. WayWoof is her dog. After all, Daisy the Witch Baby magicked her into life. And if Daisy forgets about her because WayWoof has vanished across the garden with Vivaldi, then WayWoof will simply f . . . a . . . d . . . e away. How could I ex
plain that to Vivaldi? Imagine.

  Um, yes, Vivaldi, see our dog? Well, then again, now you CAN’T see our dog because she’s faded away. That’s because unless my baby sister concentrates on doing a dog spell, she doesn’t exist. Our dog, I mean, not my baby sister. Er. What I really mean is . . . um . . .

  I can also imagine Vivaldi’s eyes rolling backwards in her head as she thinks, Boy. What a weirdo. How soon can I get away from her?

  There’s only one thing to do. I grab Daisy, plonk her in her pushchair and take off after Vivaldi and WayWoof. As we run, I’m desperately trying to keep Daisy concentrating on WayWoof.

  ‘Way WayWoof?’ Daisy yawns as if she couldn’t care less where WayWoof is. She yawns again. Widely. Uh-oh. If she falls asleep now, WayWoof will vanish.

  ‘NO!’ I shriek, then, remembering that Daisy probably doesn’t like being shrieked at, I add, ‘No, no, no, let’s go and find that naughty, naughty WayWoof, shall we?’

  Daisy’s eyelids flutter. She’s falling asleep.