WITCHES IN DEED Large Print

For dearest Dolly

PIP POLLINGER IN PRINT Pollinger Limited 9 Staple Inn Holborn LONDON WC1V 7QH www.pollingerltd.com First published by EPB Publishers Pte Ltd 1990 This edition published by Pollinger in Print 2007 Copyright © Val Thame 1990 All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-905665-25-9 No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without prior written permission from Pollinger Limited

Chapter One

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ts nose is too small,” declared Aunt Drab, poking her own long and pointed nose into the new baby’s cot. “And . . . ugh! It’s smiling at me !” “Let me see! Let me see!” Aunt Stormkettle pushed her elderly sister aside. She too peered into the cot, her black, stringy hair dangling down like a bead curtain. “Oh, how disappointing!” she said when she saw the baby’s sweet face. “It doesn’t look like any of us!” “Doesn’t look like anybody!” said Aunt Thunder. “It’s almost pretty and it looks disgustingly pleasant.” “And it hasn’t got a single spot!” said Drab, who was extremely proud of her own green and warty features. “That child’s too ordinary to be our niece. It’s a usurper!” “Oh, come now dear!” said Aunt Nettle, possibly the kindest of the Aunts, as she put 1

an arm around her sister. “Of course it isn’t a usurper. They come from the Himalayas, don’t they, or somewhere like that?” “No, they don’t! And I didn’t mean that!” “Oh, well! I was never good at geography. But such a clever word, Drab. What does it mean?” “It means that baby doesn’t belong here. That’s what it means!” “Oh, how can you say that about our dear Hayzell’s baby? She may be our great, great, great, great and ever-so-many greats, great niece but make no mistake, that child is ours! As for the smile, well, it’s very young. I expect it was a touch of wind. That happens with babies. I don’t think they can help it.” “Rotting cabbage!” said Thunder. “Witch babies don’t do it! I know a real smile when I see one, and I hate smiles! That child looks to me as though it’s going to grow up to be a goody-goody!” “Oh no!” The gaggle of ancient crones once more dipped their horrible heads into the small, black cot. “No, you don’t mean that, sister. It can’t be good.” Aunt Stormkettle poked the small bundle with a bony finger. “I’d like it to be a bad, ugly baby and think horribly evil thoughts. Say gungey-gungey, baby! Pokey-eyes-out. Sicky-sicky.” 2

The baby cooed happily and burped; a quiet, delicate burp like a musical hiccup. Then it smiled prettily, turned over and fell asleep sucking its thumb. Stormkettle recoiled in horror. “Festering frogs! Look at it! I’ve never seen such a contented child.” “You silly old hags,” cried Thunder, elbowing her way through her flapping, fussing sisters. “If you’d stop dribbling over that gruesome baby and stand back, you might see something important. But I don’t suppose any of you have the eye for it.” The Aunts began to bicker. “Speak for yourself! I saw it!” “Oh, listen to her. So did I!” “What was it then?” “Not telling!” “You didn’t see it!” “Yes I did!” “Didn’t!” “Did! Did! Did!” The Aunts’ shrill voices got louder and louder. “Beee-KWY-ERT!” Thunder was well named. She was a large witch with a voice so terrible that sometimes it made the sky shudder and the clouds mass together in a dark huddle. At such times the clouds were so frightened they cried, and drenched the earth in their tears. 4

The quarrelsome sisters took notice of Thunder – not because she was older or wiser, but because she was a lot bigger and had a vile temper. When she had their attention Thunder said, “Our new niece is very plain, well we can all see that, not one single pimple! Sister Drab put it very well when she said the child is ordinary. So ordinary, I would say, it could almost be a mortal.” “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” There was a long and eerie intake of breath from the horrified Aunts. It sounded like all four winds blowing through all the forests in the world. It was a noise which sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it. Likening a witchling to a mortal was a terrible thing to say.

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Chapter Two

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he awful sound of the horrified Aunts reached the ears of the baby’s mother, Witch Hayzell. She had been in the kitchen preparing supper for her great and ancient Aunts who had gathered together for the Witchling Naming Ceremony. It is a peculiar tradition among witches that Aunts, and only Aunts, name the children. Boy or girl it does not matter, nor do the opinions of the parents on these occasions. Sensing trouble, which is easy for a witch, Hayzell pushed her way through the Aunts still crowding round the cot. “What’s the matter?” She picked up her small daughter. “What have the Aunties been doing to you? Is baby alright?” “Put that child down!” said Stormkettle. “It makes my bunions burn to see you cooing and cuddling it! It’ll only make it good-tempered. ‘Bout time it learnt a few 6

nasties. Six months old and what does it do? Why, my little Stormina Teacup could zap up her favourite toy at that age, and make it fetch and carry for her. I remember when my Stormina . . .” Hayzell interrupted quickly because once Aunt Stormkettle settled into a story about her Stormina there was no stopping her. “But this little one is not yours, Aunt — she’s mine! And I can assure you, there’s nothing wrong with her at all!” Hayzell laid the baby down on its black, frilly pillow where it immediately went to sleep. “Look at that!” said Drab. “Not a whimper. I don’t understand it. Why isn’t it crying?” Hayzell had no answer to this, so she said, “Supper’s ready.” Then she added, “The naming ceremony can begin.” This was the moment the Aunts had been waiting for. They made a rush for the cot, elbowing and pushing each other out of the way, to get closer to the baby. It was surprising to think the Aunts had so much energy for they were extremely old. Some were so ancient their birthdays were counted in hundreds instead of years. Some were still in their prime, but others were frail and doddery. Hayzell loved every one of them, especially Aunt Nettle. She was so old she had long forgotten when she was born, and a few other things besides — including 7

most of her spells. She was becoming unreliable and would soon have to retire. The Aunts’ clothes had to be seen to be believed. Each wore an assortment of dark and dirty rags, handed down through centuries of fashion. The messier they looked, the happier they were. It was the way of Aunts, especially old and witchy ones. Aunt Thunder was the only one who kept the same garment on top all the time. It was a waterproof raincoat which was several sizes too big, making her look even fatter than she already was. But Thunder liked its shininess because she could see everything in it! She could see herself, and anybody who might be sneaking up behind her! Hayzell was the only witch in the room who was not completely ugly. She did have a long nose but it was an elegant nose. She also had startling green eyes but they were attractive, almond-shaped eyes. She had unusual red hair that glowed in the dark and she did not wear the customary black, but all the colours of the rainbow which, although accepted by the regular witches, was nonetheless considered rather eccentric. Hayzell’s eccentricity had recently been the subject of much gossip among her Aunts. Hadn’t she gone off two years ago 8

and got married without inviting them to the wedding? And who was this Marvo the Magnificent she had married? Had anybody met him? No! Then back she comes one night with her new baby, but no sign of Marvo. The Aunts questioned her closely but learnt nothing. “Sit down! For crow’s sake!” roared Thunder, trying to bring about some order. Worn out with struggling, the Aunts collapsed onto the floor into a semicircle of old, black rags. Hayzell stood next to the cot and the first part of the ceremony began. Names were tossed to and fro. Into the circle and out again. Each Aunt had a chosen name. “Slime! Spiderlegs! Acid-drop! Sludgebucket! Muddikins!” Each was considered carefully. “Too green. Too thin. Too sharp. Too muddy. Too silly!” Then it was Aunt Thunder’s turn. “That child doesn’t deserve one of our names. Naturally, I’d like it to be named after me but I tell you, sisters, that infant hasn’t got what it takes. I suggest we call it something really wet, like Raindrop, or Shower or, better still — Drizzle.” The Aunts seemed to like this name. A thin buzz of excitement ran round the circle. “Hmmn, Drizzle? Hmmmm, sounds alright. Sounds wet enough!” 9

Aunt Thunder smirked under the large collar of her mirror-like raincoat. “Then, if we all agree, I say we get on with the supper.” “Wait a bit,” cried Hayzell, who did not really want her first-born daughter to be called Drizzle. “Aunt Nettle hasn’t said anything yet.” “Well dear, I hadn’t really thought of anything.” “Typical!” said Stormkettle. “You shouldn’t have come if you didn’t have a name.” “I should so!” “No, you shouldn’t!” “Yes, I should!” “Shouldn’t!” “Should! Should! Hundred times should! So there!” “OK! OK!” said Hayzell, losing just a little patience with her Aunts. “If you haven’t got a name, then it’ll have to be . . .” “But I have got a name!” said Nettle. “Which of us said the witchling looked like a goody?” “Me!” said Drab. “Terrible crying shame!” “No, it isn’t!” said Nettle. “’Tis!” said Drab, “I just said so!” “No, it isn’t!” “’TIS!” “Oh, get on with it, you miserable old crones,” bellowed Aunt Thunder. “I want my supper!” 10

“I’m sorry, sister,” said Nettle, “but if it is a goody, and wickedness knows we hope she won’t be, then why not call her Goodrun?” Stormkettle said she had never heard of such a sick-making name. Drab said it was yukky and Thunder said it would put her off her supper. The witches began to argue again. Hayzell waited patiently and, after a while, they came out of their huddle and Drab, who was spokeswitch, said, “We name this child as Nettle named her — Goodrun!” Then they slapped and hugged and shook poor old Nettle till she was dizzy. Even Aunt Thunder said the name was probably more suitable. Hayzell smiled fondly at her daughter and as she bent down to kiss the baby’s soft, downy cheek she whispered, “It’s a pity your father can’t be here but . . . here’s a present from him.” And underneath the pillow Hayzell tucked a small brown envelope. “One day perhaps, when you are older, and able to understand, I’ll tell you all about him.” And while the Aunts nosily gobbled up their Batswing soup and Frogsleg fritters, baby Goodrun slept, blissfully unaware that she was very special and quite different from everyone else.

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Chapter Three

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oodrun continued to be a contented baby. Most mothers would have been pleased, but not Hayzell. She watched and waited hopefully for signs of mischief, misery or naughtiness, but she saw none. Goodrun was a happy child. She awoke happy and she went to bed happy. She ate all her breakfast, dinner and tea and, to her mother’s great disappointment, was never once sick over anybody — not even the Aunts. During the day Goodrun would lie in her cot playing games with her fingers and counting her toes. Her mother gave her an ink-squirting octopus that had been her own much-loved toy when she was a child, but Goodrun did not like it and threw it away. Hayzell played her Great-Greatgrandmother’s antique musical box which produced an eerie assortment of blood12

curdling screams every time you turned the handle. Goodrun did not like that either. One day, Aunt Nettle gave her newest niece a present. A clock that not only told the time but answered back. When asked, “What time is it?” the clock replied, “See for yourself!” It was a very rude clock but it made Goodrun laugh. “Don’t keep laughing,” it grumbled, “I don’t like it!” The truth was anger sharpened the clock’s wits and if nobody was angry with it the clock lost interest in being rude. It sat on a shelf in Goodrun’s bedroom complaining bitterly, every hour on the hour, and would not tell the time properly. At midday it might say, “I’m fed up with sitting here!” and at one o’clock it would sigh, “What a boring morning!” Then at two o’clock it would let Goodrun know that its hands were tired. “I can’t hold them up any more,” it would complain and let them drop to twenty five past seven. In the evening it would yawn rudely, “Aaaaah! Aaaaaaaaah!” Hayzell began to teach her daughter some simple tricks, such as how to make shadows real; how to move objects without touching them; how to bring characters out of a book; and how to zap the light on or off. Goodrun was entranced by such magic, and by her wonderful mother who could do such clever things. 14

Then, one day, Hayzell showed her how to alter time — to make it go backwards or forwards — and she started by stopping the clock. The clock complained loudly, “I don’t want to stop ticking! Stop ticking yourself!” “Silence!” said Hayzell. “And remember who you are talking to or you might wind up as a Mickey Mouse watch!” The clock kept quiet. It knew Hayzell was a powerful witch and likely to carry out her threat. With a quick wave of her elegant hand Hayzell zapped the clock. It stopped ticking but, to her astonishment, it started again almost immediately. Five times she stopped it and five times it started again. Hayzell was furious. She shook the clock till its cogs and wheels rattled and its hand swung down at six thirty. “You tinny little timepiece!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing?” The clock hoisted its hands up to quarter to three and pulled a rude face. “Nothing! Wasn’t me. It was her!” “Her? Who do you mean, her?” It pointed its big hand at Goodrun. “Rubbish!” snapped Hayzell. “She can’t . . . she’s only . . . or can she? Did you?” She knelt down beside Goodrun almost too excited to speak. “Did you start the clock?” Goodrun nodded. “Clock better now,” she said. 15

Hayzell sparkled with delight. “My clever daughter!” she said. “Your first trick! I knew you could do it! Let’s try something else.” Witch Hayzell could make the sky as black as night at three o’clock in the afternoon; she could zap up thunder clouds, storms and all kinds of weather. She did not expect her small daughter to do all this straightaway; a little shower would do, or a few grey clouds. But, although she wanted to please her mother, whenever Goodrun looked up at the sky the clouds rolled away, the sun came out and the birds sang. Good weather brought out the worst in Hayzell. The bright sky hurt her lovely green eyes and made her irritable, but even so, part of her was pleased to know that Goodrun had, after all, inherited her magic powers. One day, Aunt Drab dropped in on her way to a second-hand cauldron sale. “Can’t stop,” she said, “or I shall miss the bargains. How’s my niece getting on? Is she showing signs of wickedness yet?” “Not yet, Aunt! But, you know that miserable clock Aunt Nettle gave her? Well, she can make it tick now.” Drab looked puzzled. “Hayzell, you know as well as I do that anybody can make a clock tick. It’s stopping it that’s the hard part. I’m surprised little Goodrun hasn’t 16

broken it yet. That’s the simplest way of stopping it,” she cackled with laughter. “Give her time,” said Hayzell loyally. “Her natural wickedness will all come out when she starts school.” Hazyell hoped she was right because each day Goodrun grew plumper and happier and did not look at all wicked. When she was not awake and smiling, she was asleep and smiling. The Aunts, all except kindly Aunt Nettle, lost interest in her even though she could now do a few simple tricks. And at last, even Hayzell had to admit she was getting just the tiniest bit fed up with her good-natured daughter.

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Chapter Four

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hen, suddenly, everything changed. Hayzell met Blackheart Badmanners and, for a while, she forgot about Goodrun. Blackheart, a fiendish but handsome warlock, leapt into Hayzell’s life one dark and stormy evening when Hayzell was conjuring with the weather. Blackheart was riding along on an impish little hurricane, going nowhere in particular, when through the clouds he saw the warm glow of Hayzell’s red hair bobbing along ahead of him. Hayzell, thinking what a lovely evening she had just created, had popped out for a quick night flight on her broomstick. The stick raced along on the wind and Hayzell’s extraordinary hair floated out behind her like a bright, rippling ribbon. Blackheart had never seen such hair nor such an enchantress. 18

The charming Blackheart swept the beautiful Witch Hayzell off her broomstick and away into the stormy night. When they returned the following morning, after a whirlwind journey round the world, they knew they were madly in love. They were married one dismal December evening in Blackheart’s enormous 140-room mansion. Everyone was invited to the huge party they gave. Cousins, sisters, brothers, uncles and, of course, the Aunts all came. It was a night never to be forgotten, with everybody in high spirits. The skeletons came out of the cupboards and danced till dawn to a demon band. There was much merrymaking, feasting and trickery, with every witch, wizard, enchantress, sorcerer and all the sorcerers’ apprentices trying to outdo one another. Aunt Thunder, true to her name, created one of her best thunderstorms ever. When it was over she said it had used up so much of her power she would have to lie down. “Rubbish!” cried Drab. “That’s indigestion. I saw you making a pig of yourself. Six helpings of Moss-Rot Pudding and Sour Cream. No wonder you’re fat! Greedy old witch!” “Don’t you tell tales on me, you skinny, mealy-mouthed beanstalk!” “Suet Pudding! Dumpling!” 19

“Oh! Oh!” And then the two ancient sisters, casting spells left, right and centre, had a very enjoyable argument which lasted the rest of the evening. At midnight precisely, Blackheart took all his guests up onto the roof. To finish off a magnificent wedding celebration, he conjured up a dazzling display of forked lightning which illuminated the sky for over an hour. Meanwhile, in the mortal world, people were complaining about the terrible weather they were having — the freak storms, the high winds and the thunder and lightning. What on earth, they wondered, could be causing them?

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Chapter Five

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few weeks before Goodrun’s second birthday her baby half-sister was born. And, as always, when the new witchling was six months old a naming ceremony was arranged. This time the Aunts were joyful. “My word, Stormkettle,” said Drab, “this baby’s uglier than your Stormina Teacup.” “Nobody’s as ugly as my Stormina,” said Stormkettle proudly. “She was a perfect baby.” “This one is very knowing,” said Drab. “See how her eyes follow us everywhere.” Drab leaned over the cot, her long nose close to the baby’s face. “Does the witchling know what Aunty is saying?” Suddenly Drab jumped back. “Oh! Look what she’s done,” she said, pointing proudly to the two redflecked tooth marks on her nose. “She bit me!” 22

The Aunts shrieked with delight. “I wish she’d bitten me,” said Nettle. “That baby shows spirit,” said Thunder approvingly. She too poked her head into the cot and the new baby’s thrashing feet struck her protuding teeth. “She’s one of us alright!” said Thunder, looking quite satisfied and not the slightest bit annoyed at being kicked in the teeth. “I remember doing that sort of thing when I was young.” Thunder prodded the baby affectionately. The child, in response, screwed its face up into a grisly mass of wrinkles. Its cheeks turned red, purple and then green. It looked horrible. It looked as though it was going to be sick. Then it opened its mouth and screeched with laughter. It was a very nasty sound. Hayzell gazed fondly at her second daughter. “She is rather evil, isn’t she? And so forward for her age. She often pulls her Daddy’s hair. He has several bald patches now, and yesterday she bit his hand for the first time. We were so pleased.” The Aunts were anxious to know more. “What about her powers?” “Can she fly yet?” “Can she cackle?” “No,” said Hayzell, “but she can scream so loud she shatters glass. She catches flies and hates being kissed. Blackheart and I are so proud of her.” 23

The Aunts murmured their approval. “Little horror!” “Beastly child!” “Perfect brat!” “Let’s get on with it then,” boomed Thunder. “Sooner it’s done, the sooner we eat.” The Aunts were, if anything, overexcited. They fought for space on the floor like a flock of giant crows, flapping and snapping at each other over a few inches, although there was enough room in Blackheart’s ballroom to seat a thousand witches. “I’m sitting here!” “No, you’re not! That’s my place!” “I was here first!” “Don’t care!” “Toad!” “Toad yourself!” “Shan’t!” Eventually, their territorial disputes settled, the assorted bundles of hags and rags sat in the customary half-circle around the cot. Unlike her elder sister, who had slept through most of her naming ceremony, the new baby sat up and watched everything and everybody with her dark green eyes. Once again the call was for names. But this time all the Aunts were of one mind. All had the same idea and only one name was put forward — and that was Evilyn. 24

“How wonderfully wicked,” sighed Hayzell, stroking her second daughter’s thick, dark hair which had more than a hint of red in it. “Are we agreed?” asked Thunder. The Aunts’ heads bobbed on their skinny necks. “Agreed!” they cried. And so Goodrun’s baby sister was officially named. Blackheart, who had been waiting anxiously for the result in the next room, was called in. “Well done, Aunts!” he said. “An excellent choice. Evilyn Badmanners. I like it.” “Right! Supper time now!” said Aunt Thunder, undoing the belt of her raincoat. “Bags, I have first choice!” She need not have worried. There was plenty for everyone. The supper was a splendid affair, as all naming ceremonies were, but Blackheart was determined to make his Evilyn’s supper the best of all. Course upon course of the most exotic food was set before the guests. There were dishes from all over the world — American Burgers, Madras Curry, Mexican Chilli, Irish Stew — as well as their own special favourites. For dessert they had Italian ice cream, French crêpes, English puddings and Dutch cheeses. Thunder had a bad attack of hiccups after taking Mexican Chilli and had to miss some of the desserts, which put her in a very black mood. 25

Baby Evilyn, the star of the evening, sat in her cot at the head of the table, her small eyes twinkling with mischief, and joined in the fun. When the Aunts laughed, Evilyn shrieked; when Blackheart roared, Evilyn screamed; and when Goodrun, who sat next to her, rocked the cot to keep the baby quiet, Evilyn bit her. “You are naughty!” said Goodrun, sucking the miniature tooth marks on the back of her hand. The baby smiled an evil smile and nodded. She seemed to understand everything.

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Chapter Six

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vilyn grew up astonishingly quickly. By the time she was four she was almost as tall as her elder sister and almost as clever too. She was so advanced in reading and spelling Hayzell decided the sisters should start school together. “It’s so silly to keep our little Evilyn at home,” she said to Blackheart one day. “She is clearly ready for some formal education and will be good company for Goodrun.” And so the Badmanners sisters were sent to the Witches Academy of Black Art. The academy was a boarding school, as all witch schools were, because the students’ parents were hardly ever at home. Some lived in Transylvania where schools were banned altogether; some lived at the North Pole which was too cold for lessons in anything, except keeping warm; some were constantly in flight, travelling round the world chasing 27

or making mischief; and few had regular houses, the Badmanners Mansion being an exception. So all the witchlings at the academy lived in and only saw their parents during the summer holidays. The academy was run from an old country house alive with spooks and ghosts (a fact of which the Head, Madame Necromancy, was very proud), and it took in witchlings of all ages from four to fourteen. Witches, as a rule, were very quick learners and most witchlings graduated to full-witches by the time they were twelve or so. Any fourteen-year-olds still studying had to be simple or backward. Madame Necromancy was an immensely powerful witch who ruled her pupils and her gaggle of ghastly teachers with an iron will. Most of the time she shut herself away in her own private wing, which Was permanently shrouded in fog, and only came out for examinations and Halloween. She spent the rest of the time in her fog-bound rooms researching into all forms of Evil, and perfecting her weird and awful spells. The Academy offered the usual lessons: General Witchcraft, Spells & Potions, Science and Magic Formulae, The Mortal World and How To Be A Nuisance In It, as well as Nature Study (how to distinguish poisonous animals and plants from the boring ones), World Geography (vital for a 28

travelling witch), Broomstick Aeronautics and the non-academic lessons, Screaming and Mud-grappling, the latter being a witch’s equivalent of Physical Education, only it was much dirtier. When Evilyn had been at the academy for two years she was only one class below Goodrun and by the time she was eight she was in the same one. This was not because Goodrun was slow or stupid, because she was not. Goodrun was sensible, bright and clever. Evilyn was bright and clever too but she was also cunning and sly; and Goodrun was a bit short on these qualities. Evilyn liked mixing with other witchlings, who were just as bad as she was, and seemed not to miss her parents at all. Goodrun, on the other hand, missed her mother a lot. Her favourite lesson, and the one she excelled in, was Broomstick Areonautics. Flying over rooftops, looking down on the world and feeling the breeze in your hair were wonderful. She longed for the day when she would have her flying certificate and her very own broomstick. Naturally, the academy was well-stocked with practice brooms but most of them were worn out and falling to bits. Some only had half their twigs where previous students had crash-landed. Some only had half their handles, which made them very difficult to 29

steer. But none of this spoiled Goodrun’s enjoyment. The lesson which Goodrun liked least, and the one at which Evilyn excelled, was the MEAT lessson. MEAT was witchling slang for Mean, Evil and Atrocious Tricks. Goodrun could not understand why anybody should get pleasure from playing a mean and nasty trick on somebody else. “I always feel sorry for the other person,” said Goodrun one day. Evilyn looked horrified. “Have you gone batty?” she said. “What’s it matter what they think! If they don’t like it then it’s likely a very good trick. You should read this old book on practical jokes. Some of them are a scream!” “Yes, but for who?” thought Goodrun. The sisters were alike in some ways. Both had startling red hair and dark green eyes but there the likeness ended. Evilyn had freckles, pimples and a long witch’s nose. Goodrun had no freckles, no pimples and a very small nose. They were also very different in nature. Goodrun always knew where her temper was and hardly ever lost it. Evilyn, on the other hand, frequently lost hers and made no attempt to find it. Goodrun rarely felt like being beastly and Evilyn delighted in it. She would think up the most diabolical things to do to frighten 31

the first-year witchlings. She had been known, for no reason at all, to pour cold water over them when they were asleep in their beds or, if they annoyed her, turn them into armchairs so she could sit on them. Evilyn was horrible, but she was very popular. Even though she could not compete with her sister’s high standards, Goodrun hoped that one day she too would be ugly, be able to make people’s flesh creep when they looked at her, and make their teeth chatter and their legs turn to jelly when she screamed. Then she would have no difficulty passing her exams and becoming a proper witch, like her mother and her grandmother and all the other witches. Pupils at the academy were graded according to their ability, so it was not unusual to have girls of different ages in the same class. The Badmanners sisters were in Witch Pickings’ class. Pickings, an ancient and toothless crone of unknown years, hated teaching. She hated silly young witchlings and hated having to explain things which, in her opinion, any nine or tenyear-old worth a speck of dust ought to know already. It was Pickings who wrote the personal comments on the end-of-term reports. On Evilyn’s report, Pickings said things like: 32

“This child is forward for her age. Shows promise. Has a good memory for spells and a nasty, mean streak. Is extremely bad and will have no difficulty in being wicked.” Goodrun’s report said: “This child insists on using her own mind and making up her own spells. She is a nuisance. Ruins the class atmosphere by being nice and smiling. Refuses to boil toads, or squash flies. She is a disruptive element in the class.” Hayzell read her eldest daughter’s report several times. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being a nuisance,” she thought. “All witches are; it’s part of their nature. And what’s wrong with making up your own spells? I do it all the time.” But it was the phrase “being nice and smiling” which worried Hayzell, for being nice and smiling were definitely not “witch” qualities. She showed the report to Goodrun’s step-father. Blackheart only laughed. “Our little Evilyn is witch enough for both of them,” he said. “Don’t worry your lovely red head, my dear.” But Hayzell did worry, because she knew something that Blackheart did not. 33

Chapter Seven

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itch Pickings’ class was held in a draughty, turret-room at the top of one of the academy’s towers. This meant a tiring climb up 84 large stone steps every day before lessons and, of course, 84 down again at the end of the day. “The sooner I can zap myself up these steps the better!” grumbled Evilyn, as she stomped from the seventy fourth to the seventy fifth. “If only we could use broomsticks,” said Goodrun struggling along behind her. “It would be so much quicker to fly. Why do you think she chose a room right up in the roof?” “Because she’s an old bat!” said Evilyn. “And when she’s angry,” said Goodrun, “and flaps her wings, I mean her sleeves, she even looks like one.”

34

“Right!” said Evilyn. “And she’s as blind as a bat too. Can’t see a thing without her glasses.” “Sssh!” hissed Goodrun. “She’ll hear you!” “Don’t care if she does.” The eighty-fourth step passed at last and the girls staggered into the classroom, gasping for breath. Pickings pointed her bony finger at them. “Oh, look everybody,” she sneered, “the Badmanners sisters have arrived. Sit down at once, you miserable spots, and think yourself lucky I haven’t turned you both into puddings for being last in!” Evilyn started grumbling under her breath. “When I’ve learned how to disappear properly she won’t see me for dust.” Goodrun giggled. “If you are going to disappear she won’t be able to see you anyway!” “Silence!” Witch Pickings crept between the desks, peering into each girl’s face as she passed by, her small piggy eyes glittering through her small piggy spectacles. “If I catch the girl who was giggling . . .” She did not need to say more. Goodrun’s smile disappeared immediately. “When I was a witchling,” said Pickings, creeping back to her own desk at the front 35

of the class, “we didn’t have mimsy-pimsy things like schools! We had to find out for ourselves! That’s the best way to learn! By your own mistakes! We had to find our own poisonous toads, mix our own rotten spells, concoct our own smelly potions . . . Look at me, Murky Pondwater, when I’m talking to you!” Murky, an ugly child with hair like damp moss and a complexion to match, pulled a ghoulish face. Pickings studied her closely for a second or two and then said, “If the wind changes you’ll stay like that Murky Pondwater, which will be a pity . . . because your own face is so much uglier.” “Oh, thank you, ma’am,” said Murky, leering round at the rest of the class. The girls were always pulling faces; it was something all witches did. Some of the lucky ones, like Murky, were so ugly they did not have to try. Evilyn had a terrifying collection and practised for hours in the dormitory, and every time she passed a mirror she tried out a new one. Goodrun could not get used to face-pulling. She thought it was rude and silly. Once she had gone so far as to say so, and the girls in her dormitory never let her forget it. “Yah, Goody Goodrun, fat as a plaice, She’s the only witch who can’t pull a face.” 36

“Goodrun Badmanners! What did I just say?” Witch Pickings was standing directly in front of her and the light, glinting in her spectacles, was blinding. Goodrun held up her hand to shield her eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know!” “Don’t know? Why do I waste my time on such insects! Stand by my desk!” As she stood up Goodrun tripped over a large black boot attached to Witch Pickings’ large black foot. She knew Pickings had stuck it out on purpose because it was the sort of nasty thing she did, and Goodrun could hear her sniggering. She marched up to the desk and faced front. Every single girl was pulling a hideous face at her. Goodrun poked her tongue out. It was not all that clever but it was the best she could think of. “We shall continue our lesson on herbs,” said Pickings. “Herbs are very important and an essential ingredient in all spells. What did I say, Murky Pondwater?” She spun round and smacked her cane down on Murky’s desk. Murky sniffed noisily. She always did this while she was thinking of something to say and, since she thought very slowly, she did a lot of sniffing. “Er . . . (sniff) Witches are important (sniff), greedy and . . . (sniff, sniff) they all smell!” 37

“Wrong! But a fine try!” Goodrun’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Why didn’t Pickings tell Murky off? She hadn’t been listening. Why didn’t she make her stand at the front? Goodrun was furious. She had been honest. She had told the truth and been punished for it. It simply was not fair. She watched Pickings fondly tweaking Murky’s lank hair. Goodrun vowed she would never understand Witch Pickings if she lived to be a thousand. Pickings was saying, “Feverfew is a useful little herb. Anybody knows a Feverfew spell?” One or two girls, including Evilyn, put their hands up. “Alright! I only asked! Anybody know a Dock leaf recipe?” Evilyn stood up. “I do! Take a pound of Dock leaves, gathered at dawn and covered in dew, and boil them in . . . .” Pickings was beside Evilyn in one huge stride. “Did I ask you to repeat it?” she screamed. “I did not! Listen to what I am saying, Evilyn Badmanners?” She turned round to face the class. “That’s the trouble with all of you! You will not listen and that’s how mistakes are made. And mistakes in magic, mark my words, cannot always be put right!” The room went cold as the old crone finished speaking and a distant rumble of 38

thunder could be heard. The girls, appreciating the creepy atmosphere, applauded and this pleased Pickings. Her mood changed abruptly. “Drat the herbs!” she cried. “It’s a day for the outdoors. Look out of the window, my witchlings.” Goodrun looked. The sky was dark and overcast. Flat grey clouds blocked out what little light there was. It was the sort of weather that made her feel like staying indoors, sitting in front of a fire and toasting crumpets. “Can’t you smell it?” cried the Witch, her long nose twitching from side to side. “My nose tells me it’s weather for flying. Broomsticks out, goggles on and get into line. And QUICKLY! I want everybody outside before it brightens up again.” There was a noisy stampede for the broom cupboard. Goodrun raised her hand. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?” snapped Pickings. “Please ma’am, I haven’t got an umbrella with me!” “What’s that got to do with it?” snapped Pickings, “I haven’t got a bag of potatoes with me! I haven’t got a bus ticket with me! I haven’t got lots of things with me!” “I was only thinking it looks like rain.” 39

“That’s not very clever, Badmanners. It lopks like rain to all of us. You don’t need an umbrella to tell you that! Now get in line and stop whining!” As usual, Goodrun was the last to get to the cupboard. There were no flying goggles left and, as always, she had the worst broom. Its handle was scratched and rough and most of its twigs were missing but she did not care. She launched herself off the turret balcony and up into the damp, dreary sky. “Ah well,” she sighed, “I might as well enjoy the ride.”

40

Chapter Eight

A

ny person foolish enough to be outdoors on that dark and gloomy afternoon, with the rain threatening and the wind gusting, would have kept their heads tucked well down into their coat collars, or hidden under their umbrellas. But had they looked up, they would have seen a flock of small witchlings sailing through the sky on broomsticks and, ahead of them, pointing the way with her walking stick, Witch Pickings. “Follow me ! Keep in line! Wait here!” Pickings’ reedy voice came drifting back along the line. The witchlings hovered in the air while Pickings flew straight into a large purple cloud. When she reappeared, her clothes and hair were dripping wet but her face was aglow with excitement. She dived in again and came out the other side shaking herself dry like a dog. 41

“Lesson in flying through clouds,” she said. “Who wants to be first?” Goodrun kept quiet. She did not want to do it at all. She was already cold and damp and the last thing she wanted to do was fly through a raincloud. She pulled her thin cloak round her and thought of warm sunshine and yellow spring flowers, and it seemed to make her feel warmer. Then she noticed that the flat, grey clouds were becoming fatter and paler, and the ugly purple one was beginning to expand, and the edges were breaking off into little puffpieces. Pickings had just gone into the purple cloud for the third time when it suddenly split in two, and she dropped out, upside down, in front of the class. As she struggled to catch her broomstick, the sun burst through and everyone was doused in a bright, golden light. “Hide your eyes!” cried Pickings as she fell. “Cover your faces! QUICKLY I say, before one of us shrivels up. Baa-ack to scho-ooool!” Her voice faded into the distance as she plummeted earthwards. When the girls got back Pickings was already there — waiting, hands on hips, flapping her bat-like sleeves. It did not take a clever witch to see she was rip-roaring, 43

gum-gnashing angry. There were two bright spots on her wizened cheeks and steam was oozing out of her collar. Broomsticks and goggles were thrown into the cupboard and voices raised as the girls squabbled and fought for chairs. “That’s enough behaviour!” said Pickings, who neither said it was good or bad. “I want to know who’s been using weather spells without permission!” Her eyes were cold, like steel buttons. Some of the girls decided there could be a few black points to be gained by owning up, whether they were guilty or not. “I have!” said Murky, sniffing hard. “No, you haven’t!” said Pickings, “I know your sort of weather, Murky Pondwater, and this wasn’t it! Anybody else like to own up?” The fact that none of the girls knew what they might be owning up to made it all the more exciting. They all started shouting and waving their hands but Evilyn shouted the loudest. “It was me! It was me!” Evilyn did not want to miss out on any extra black marks even though she already had more than anybody else. “I did it.” Witch Pickings’ steely eyes narrowed to slits. “How?” she said. “How did you do it?” “I used the damp dungeons and dreary day spells — together!” she added. 44

“Rubbish! You’re lying!” said Pickings. “But that’s not a fault. I like a witch who can tell a good lie. But it still does not answer my question . Who messed up the weather?” “Please ma-am, I did!” cried Greasey Puddle, who thought she must have had something to do with it if it was something messy. “I kept one of last year’s exam spells. See, I left it in a jar and it went all mouldy, see. Then it went rotten and began to smell. It was a stinking, pongy, putrid, festering . . .” “Sit down, Greasey!” sighed Pickings. “It wasn’t you because this was NOT a rotten spell and it did NOT stink. But you can have a black mark for imagination.” Witch Pickings rummaged about in her desk, found a black mark, and tossed it to Greasey, who stuck it proudly on the end of her nose which was already covered in several natural black marks of her own. “No,” mused Pickings, “the strange thing about this spell is that it was almost . . . fragrant!” The class gasped in horror. “Aaah!” breathed the witch, her eyes narrowing. “Now we are getting somewhere. It was either a practical joke or a mistake! Or it may have been intentional!” she muttered, smacking the wall with her stick as she hobbled round the room and then stood right behind Goodrun. 45

Goodrun’s heart was pounding so loudly she was sure Pickings could hear it. Sometimes she thought the terrible old crone could read her thoughts and that made her tremble even more. She wanted to own up and tell everyone that she had made the sun come out; that she liked the sun and did not care what they thought! But the awful trouble was she did care, and she was far too frightened of what Pickings might do to her if she ever found out she was guilty. Goodrun longed to be like her friends. They’d own up to anything and did not give a thought to the outcome. Sometimes, to her shame, Goodrun did not want to be bad at all. It was a terrible thing to live with and she didn’t dare tell her sister, her teachers or her parents. She felt sure she must be the only good witch in the world.

46

Chapter Nine

A

fter kicking the chair legs and threatening terrible punishment, Pickings eventually shuffled back to her desk and Goodrun breathed a sigh of relief. “Pickings by name and pickings by nature,” she thought crossly. Goodrun often felt she was being picked on by Pickings. Once the old witch told her she was her least favourite pupil and she did not like her much. “Well, I don’t like you much either!” thought Goodrun. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin. Pickings’ cane had crashed down onto her desk and her eyes, burning out of their sockets like two black coals, were staring straight at her. “Oh no!” Goodrun shook inside. “Sh-surely she — she didn’t read my mind!” 47

“Iffffffff,” hissed Pickings, “I find out who spoiled my afternoon, and who deliberately made a fool of me by splitting the clouds and tipping me out of the sky, I shall punish them by sending them to the bathhouse!” The girls gasped. The bathhouse was worse than any dungeon. There was fresh water in the bathhouse and all witches had a morbid fear of fresh water. Murky Pondwater nearly fainted when the word “bath” was uttered, and for a few minutes there was uproar in the class as all the witchlings, now under threat of a good wash, suddenly denied having anything to do with the weather spell. “Wasn’t me!” “I didn’t do it!” “Nor me!” “Alright! Alright!” snapped Pickings. “But one of you did, and I’ve a mind to make you all carry a piece of soap till somebody owns up!” More gasps of horror were heard. “But, for the moment, I’ll pretend to forget it.” “Hooray!” said Greasey, rather foolishly. “I only said pretend!” sneered Pickings. “Don’t get excited. So! Who’s learnt a new spell? Oh! Ah! Ouch! Oh!” Suddenly Witch Pickings started hopping about, clutching her thin cheeks. 48

“Oh! Ouch! Ah! Ooh! Aaaah!” Evilyn nudged her sister. “Poor old Pickings,” said Goodrun. “Poor old Pickings?” said Evilyn. “That’s a silly thing to say. What about clever Evilyn? That’s my new spell. Instant Raging Face Ache!” “But that’s nasty,” said Goodrun. “I know,” said Evilyn, gazing proudly at Witch Pickings as she lay on the floor, writhing in agony. “I only found it last night. I wanted to do Instant Raging Toothache but Pickings hasn’t got any.” “Hasn’t got any toothache?” “Hasn’t got any teeth, stupid!” “But she’s in pain,” cried Goodrun. “Can’t you stop it, Evilyn?” “Nope! Somebody had torn the page out. What’s the matter with you anyway? You don’t like her anymore than I do. Serves her right.” “Evilyn! That’s wicked!” “Well,” she sneered, “witches are wicked, aren’t they? Anybody here knows a nice witch?” Several of the girls nearly choked at the thought. Goodrun felt silly. But silly or not, she could not help feeling sorry for anyone in pain, even the hateful Witch Pickings! She ignored Evilyn, who tried to pull her back, and went to comfort the old witch. She 49

remembered a healing spell that Aunt Nettle had used on her when, years ago, she’d been stung by a bee. There was a chance it might work. With her hand on Pickings’ cheek she chanted, “Under, over, through this spell, away with pain and leave thee well.” To Goodrun’s delight, the old witch stopped moaning immediately and sat up, rubbing her jaw. “That was peculiar. Really peculiar. I was sure I had toothache, but I couldn’t have because I haven’t got any teeth!” “It wasn’t toothache,” said Evilyn. “It was Instant Raging Face Ache from Spells Old and New (Book One). You asked us for a new spell.” “So I did,” said Pickings, “and it was nasty too. It felt exactly like toothache. Six black marks, Evilyn Badmanners, but don’t do it again!” “Thank you ma-am!” said Evilyn. “Are you feeling better now?” asked Goodrun. Pickings seemed to notice her for the first time. “What’s it to you? Mind your own business! And why aren’t you in your seat?” Goodrun could feel her anger rising. How rude! It would not have hurt her to say a “thank you for helping me” or even “thank 51

you”. She did not deserve any kindness. Evilyn was right. “I was only trying to help,” mumbled Goodrun. “Speak up, don’t answer back and be quiet!” Goodrun stood up. “Before you go,” said Pickings, “let me have a sniff of water. I need something to revive me after that face ache!” Pickings always kept a bowl of water on her desk. It was green and dank and made the whole room smell of stagnant ponds. Pickings used it as a room freshener and sometimes as perfume, dabbing it behind her ears. Goodrun thought ordinary water would do her more good, and be nicer to look at too. She imagined the bowl filled with fresh water and a goldfish or two swimming around in it. When she handed the bowl to Pickings, she was as surprised as any to see the water change from cloudy green to crystal clear. “Ugh—Aaah!” screeched Pickings when she saw it. “What have you done? Are you trying to make me ill?” “No, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” stammered Goodrun. “I only thought . . .” “Well, don’t!” Pickings rushed across to the sink and tipped the water away. “I’ve got my eye on you, Badmanners. You’ve been 52

behaving strangely lately. You’d better pull your boots up, otherwise . . .” She did not say what the “otherwise” might be but Goodrun knew that, whatever it was, it would not be pleasant. “You’ll probably get expelled,” said Evilyn cheerfully when Goodrun got back to her seat. “Don’t say that! I don’t know why these things always happen to me. I can be nasty if I really want to. I’ll have to try harder, that’s all.” Evilyn laughed her awful creaky laugh. “You’ll have to try a lot harder!” she said. But, as it happened, Goodrun did not have to try at all that day. Pickings started droning on again about herbs. Lists of herbs to remember and lists of herbs to forget. It was the dullest lesson ever and some of the girls fell asleep on their desks. Then Pickings herself began to yawn and, at that moment, Evilyn perked up. She nudged Goodrun. “As soon as she falls asleep, I’m going.” “Where?” “Anywhere!” hissed Evilyn. “You coming or not?” “I’m coming!” sniffed Murky. “Me too!” said Greasey. They all knew that once out of the classroom they could make themselves 53

invisible and Pickings would not be able to find them. She would not report them missing either, because if Madame Necromancy found out that one of her teachers had fallen asleep in class, she would be dismissed from her post quicker than you could say “mouse-droppings”. Sensing something was about to happen, as witches do, those who had fallen asleep suddenly woke up. The whole class watched and waited in silence as the old witch’s eyelids began to flutter and her scraggy body began to sway to and fro over the desk. “So, beware of angelica . . . Aaaaah!” Pickings yawned loudly, “Because it is a very . . . Aaaaah!” Then Pickings flopped forward onto her desk, her long nose bent sideways and her hands dropping limply by her sides. She began snoring immediately, a signal for the girls to get out as quickly as possible. But Evilyn stopped them. “Wait! We can’t miss a chance like this!” So while Pickings snored, they put itching powder in her hat, blocked the spout of her teapot with an old sock and put salt in her sugar bowl. They tied her hands to the chairlegs and tied her bootlaces together. That done, nobody wanted to be there when Pickings woke up and they all scrambled to get out. They made so much noise clattering 54

down the stairs Goodrun, who was the last again, could almost feel Pickings’ cold fingers on her collar. “Ssssh! Up front!” she hissed. “Give us a chance to get out!” And so, in an unusually quiet and orderly fashion, the fourteen witchlings silently glided down the 84 steps to the courtyard below. Once outside, they ran about in all directions, whooping and shrieking and some actually exploding with excitement. Every pupil at the Witches Academy liked to trick a teacher, especially without wasting any magic powers. Even Goodrun had to admit that, this time, she had enjoyed it too.

55

Chapter Ten

B

ut that night Goodrun could not sleep. She kept thinking of Evilyn’s careless remark that she might be expelled. That, by itself, was bad enough but it would also mean that without her Diploma in Magic, she would never graduate from witchling to witch and would have to leave the academy in disgrace! She tossed and turned as these worrying thoughts rushed though her mind. Then another even more alarming thought pushed the others aside. She jerked upright in bed, heart pounding and eyes staring. If she were expelled from the academy, where would she go? Was there a terrible, dark place for failed witches? Or would she be zapped into oblivion? Goodrun began to tremble and pulled the covers up tighter round her neck. “Don’t be silly,” she told herself, “Mother would look after me. Well, I think she would.” 56

Witch Hayzell wrote to both her daughters from time to time and, from these letters, they learnt that their mother had become a most important witch. She had her own coven now, and that meant meetings and conferences nearly every night. Sometimes she and Blackheart were away so much they shut up the mansion altogether. “If I lived at home,” thought Goodrun, “I’d be on my own most of the time, and it’s such a big place! One hundred and forty empty rooms.” The thought sent shivers down her spine. “All those suits of armour and old paintings, and hundreds of skeletons in the cupboards. No! I couldn’t. Not on my own!” Goodrun moaned and shivered again. “Oh, shut up and go to sleep!” shouted Evilyn from the next bed. “I’m trying to read!” “Sorry!” said Goodrun. “I didn’t know you were awake. What are you reading?” “Advanced Mumbo Jumbo - In All Its Forms,” said Evilyn, “and I want to finish this chapter on materialization before morning.” “Materialization? What’s that?” Evilyn sighed impatiently. “How to disappear from one place and reappear in another in the same instant! You should know that.” “Should I? Do you think it will be in our exams?” 57

“Yes, I do! That’s why I’m reading it up.” “I don’t know anything about it at all.” “Then you’d better learn it, otherwise you won’t pass, will you!” “Aaah! What’s going on?” yawned Murky, who shared the four-bed dormitory with the Badmanners sisters and Greasey Pondwater. “What are you two whispering about?” “Nothing! Go back to sleep!” said Evilyn. “Why?” said Murky, sniffing anixously “What are you trying to hide?” “Nothing!” “Then (sniff) why do you want me to go to sleep?” “Because I want to read!” “What’s happening?” Greasey was awake now and clambering over the beds. “Are we planning something?” “No!” snapped Evilyn. “Shut up and go back to bed!” “Don’t want to! Let’s pinch some brooms and go for a ride.” “Oh, do what you like!” shouted Evilyn. “But keep quiet!” “I’m not the one who’s shouting!” bellowed Greasey. “You started it!” “Shut up, all of you!” cried Goodrun. “You’ll wake the duty witch!” “Why should you care?” screamed Greasey, who did not like being told off, least of all by both sisters at once. 58

“Yeah!” said Murky. “Don’t interfere!” Murky was suspicious. She was certain something was going on and that she was not in on it. Evilyn was annoyed because she wanted to finish her reading. She intended to be the wickedest, cleverest and most feared witch in the school, and even in the world, and this silly squabbling over nothing was irritating her. Goodrun watched as first one, two, then three tempers were lost. Murky started it by trying to grab Evilyn’s bedclothes and within seconds all three of them were tumbling round the dormitory like a thrashing, cursing, squabbling ball of bedclothes. Goodrun tried to stop them by pulling at any loose piece of sheet that she could get hold of. Then Evilyn’s sharp fingernails dug into her arm. “Ouch!” she squealed, letting go of the sheets. Then she heard a noise which made her flesh creep all over. Footsteps in the corridor outside; the rumbles and roars of the duty witch getting ever closer. The footsteps stopped outside their door. Goodrun wanted to jump back into bed but fear had glued her legs to the floor. Her eyes were fixed to the moving door handle. It turned full circle and the door was flung open. The tall figure of the duty witch filled 59

the frame and the light from her lamp, held high, fell directly onto Goodrun. “Why aren’t pusty little pimples like you in bed?” She had a voice like squeaky chalk. “Do you know what time it is?” “We were . . .” began Goodrun. “Weeeeee?” shrieked the duty witch. “How can one of us be we?” “Because they . . .” began Goodrun. She turned round. Evilyn, Murky and Greasey were all back in bed and snoring loudly. “Because I couldn’t sleep,” she finished lamely. “Do you always make so much noise when you can’t sleep?” It was a question which did not require an answer. Then her voice softened and in honeyed tones she said, “Tell me, honestly, because I’d like to know, what is your favourite lesson?” “Broomstick Aeronautics, ma-am!” Immediately the witch’s voice changed. “Then your punishment,” she rasped, “is . . . no flying for a fortnight! I shall report this to Witch Pickings in the morning.” The duty witch left, slamming the door behind her. Goodrun climbed back into bed and listened to her footsteps as she stomped back along the corridor to her room. A door slammed shut and there was silence once again. Goodrun felt thoroughly miserable. Banned from flying! The only thing she really enjoyed. 60

“It isn’t fair!” she said aloud. “I was only trying to help. And what happened to the rest of you? Why didn’t you own up?” There was a series of muffled snorts from the other beds and Evilyn was practically choking under the sheets. “Well, I don’t think it’s funny!” said Goodrun. Evilyn threw back the bedclothes. “You’re so slow. You should have zapped into bed when you heard her coming. You’ll never make a proper witch!” The last remark hurt. Goodrun pulled the covers over her head and tried to forget it and go to sleep. But she kept hearing voices saying, “What’s the matter with you? You’ll never make a proper witch! I expect you’ll be expelled. Expelled. Expelled.” “No, I won’t! I shall be a witch. I must not feel sorry for people! I must be bad! I must be nasty!” And with this in mind she eventually drifted off into a bad dream. The next morning, still full of bad intentions, Goodrun unmade her bed, tangled her hair and dirtied her face. She screwed up her day clothes before putting them on, and knocked a dent in her hat. Then she tried stretching her nose, which everybody said was too short, and pulling ugly faces in the mirror. She even tried one out on Evilyn. 61

“You look silly!” said Evilyn, pulling, in return, a face so hideous Goodrun was afraid to look at her. The new Goodrun elbowed her way up the 84 steps leading to class, trying to ignore the painful kicks and punches she got on the way. She let doors slam on anybody who was not quick enough to get through and bit her lip when she started to say “sorry”. She copied from her neighbour’s books and poked her tongue out if somebody even slightly annoyed her. She cheated at mud-grappling, tripping all her opponents and declaring herself the winner. Then she threatened to turn the referees into teabags and pour boiling water on them, and dared them to disqualify her, which of course they did not. She pushed her way to the front of the lunchtime queues and took the first and last pieces of cake at tea-time. She joined in baiting the new witchlings, pulling their hair and calling them names. She dragged the pond, filled a jar full of newts and found them new homes in Greasey’s bed and Murky’s socks. This new behaviour made Goodrun very popular at the academy, almost as popular as Evilyn. The Badmanners sisters were building a reputation for themselves as a pair of horrible witchlings. One of them was 63

as happy as any young witch could be with such an evil reputation, but the other, although she did not show it, was desperately unhappy.

64

Chapter Eleven

G

oodrun tried for a whole year to be a regular witch. She even tried to outdo her younger sister in wickedness and Evilyn, enjoying the challenge, became more outrageous than ever. Goodrun read and memorized a new spell every night before going to sleep and even got up early to practise some of the more difficult ones, such as disappearing and materializing. Most of all she looked forward to the examinations because then she would graduate to full-witch and could do whatever she liked. There was a marked improvement in her reports and Hayzell made a flying visit to the academy one evening just to tell Goodrun how pleased she was with her progress. “I always knew you could do it!” she said proudly. “Just wait till I tell the Aunts.” 65

The examinations were always held in September, a suitably damp month, and preHalloween. The atmosphere at the acadamy changed dramatically now that the exam dates were known. Everyone in Goodrun’s class worked hard and hoped to graduate that year. Nobody wanted to stay on for another year with old Pickings. Even the favourite mud-grappling lessons had been abandoned so that the girls could concentrate on their academic work. They suddenly became very possessive about their books, and class notes were carefully guarded by arms and elbows, affording little opportunity to cheat. This would be the biggest test of their lives and every witchling was on her own. Every year, a week or two before the finals, Madame Necromancy invited her favourite sorcerer to the academy to give a special pre-exam lecture. As always he made a dramatic entrance, bursting into the turret room without warning, surrounded this time by a cascade of stars. The Sorcerer was an impressive sight. He was tall, had a black, curly moustache and flowing silver hair, and wore a rich, silk paisley dressing gown with wide padded shoulders, making him look even larger than he already was. He strode up to Pickings’ desk and immediately took charge, 66

banishing the old witch to a footstool by his feet. Pickings was spitting-mad. “Look at her face!” whispered Greasey to Evilyn. “I’d rather not!” said Evilyn. “I’ve just eaten.” This remark made Greasey wheeze uncontrollably. “Who’s muttering?” cried Pickings, jumping up and glaring at Goodrun, whom she still liked to pick on from time to time. “I’ll turn whoever it was into a poisonous toadstool if she doesn’t keep quiet! See that!” Pickings poked the Sorcerer’s magnificent shoulder pads and said, “They take notice of me!” “Sit thee down, thou foul and ancient faggot!” boomed the Sorcerer. “Keep thine festering mouth closed and do not interfere!” Pickings, nearly bursting with fury, opened her mouth to curse the Sorcerer but thought better of it. She snapped her empty gums together and, muttering under her breath, sat down on her stool. “Stupid stool!” she cursed. “Why should I sit on a stupid stool!” “I don’t think Pickings likes him,” whispered Good run. “She hates him!” sniggered Evilyn. “He’s made her look ridiculous. Well, see how she likes it! She’s always doing it to us.” 67

“Hey! I’ve got an idea,” sniffed Murky Pondwater. “I’ve got an idea! Let’s put a spell on Pickings.” “Like what?” said Evilyn. “Well,’ Murky sniffed again,”this is a good one.” “Come on then!” Evilyn lost her patience very quickly. “A love spell, so that she falls in love with the Sorcerer even though we know she hates him!” “Brilliant!” Evilyn liked it. “But can you do it?” Murky nodded. The effect of Murky’s spell was instant and dramatic. The old crone stopped cursing and gazed up at the Sorcerer with adoring eyes. She did everything he asked without questioning. She hung on to his every word, applauded every gesture he made, then clasped her bony hands to her chest and fluttered her wrinkled eyelids. It was horrific. The witchlings could hardly control themselves. Suppressed snorts exploded all round the class. “She’s too sensible,” whispered Evilyn. “I’ll make her forgetful too!” The Sorcerer asked Pickings for a cauldron. “What’s a cauldron?” said Pickings. “I can’t remember! Oh do tell me what a cauldron is, my love. I’ll fetch one for you 69

straightaway if only I can remember what it is I’m supposed to be fetching,” she implored, clawing pathetically at his cloak. The Sorcerer unpeeled her bony fingers from his sleeves. “Get thee gone, thou ugly witch, thou crabby hag! The sight of thee offends my sensitive eyes. Begone!” “Begone? Where shall I begone to?” simpered Pickings. “Anywhere. But out of my sight!” “Yes, of course! Whatever you say!” She ran into the store cupboard mumbling, “I know. I’ll find a cauldron. Must find a cauldron.” Pickings looked so pathetic, mooning about, Goodrun almost felt sorry for her. Perhaps, she thought, if Pickings were beautiful instead of ugly, then maybe the Sorcerer would not mind so much, and then both would be happy — at least till the spells wore off. When Pickings came out of the store cupboard, without the cauldron but carrying a jar of cockroaches, she was almost unrecognizable. No longer bent but tall and upright; her hair thick and dark; her skin clear and smooth and, gleaming in a perfect smile, a set of even, pearl-white teeth. The girls were stunned into silence. They were shocked, horrified, and even frightened to see Pickings smiling at them, none 70

more so than Goodrun because it was her spell. Then the old witch saw her smiling reflection in a mirror. For a few terrible seconds she stared at the glass, her eyes wild and angry. “Who did this?” she cried, clawing her hair and tugging at her new teeth. “Who has spoiled my looks? Which of you miserable worms would DARE to do this to me!” And, because she could not help it , she smiled again.

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Chapter Twelve

O

nce the Sorcerer had gone and the spells had worn off, Pickings had no difficulty finding out who had got rid of her favourite warts and given her a mouthful of white teeth. She had no difficulty because Evilyn, Murky and Greasey, under the threat of terrible punishment, and in keeping with all nasty people, ratted on Goodrun. “She did it!” they said. Goodrun could not deny it. Her punishment was seven days in the dreaded bathhouse. She had to bathe every day and use soap, bath oils and talcum power. She had to wash her hair every day, clean her teeth three times a day, and make sure her fingernails were clean. During this time she was not allowed to see anybody or have any books. Life was clean but dull. She was let out the evening before the first exam and was already in bed when

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Evilyn and Greasey came up to the dormitory. “Aaargh! This place smells disgusting!” said Evilyn, turning up her long nose. “Oh splurg! Ugh! I can hardly breathe! What a stink!” cried Greasey. “Hello!” said Goodrun. “I’m back!” “That’s obvious!” said Evilyn. “You look horribly clean!” “Yeah! Ugh! And you smell awful, too, “ said Greasey. “It’ll wear off!” said Goodrun. Evilyn flung the window open. “Phew! That’s better. Hey, do you know what happened when you were away?” Goodrun shrugged. “How could I?” “Well, after you made old Pickings beautiful, she started smiling at everybody. It was weird. Gave me the creeps.” “But didn’t the spell wear off?” asked Goodrun. “Oh yes, she got her warts back and lost her teeth but she couldn’t stop smiling. Did it all the time and she hated it! So did we. It just wasn’t natural.” “So what happened?” “She said she’d been teaching for too long. Made her funny in the head. She said she thought it might happen one day.” “She said that?” 73

“Yes. Then she started being nice as well. It was horrible.” “And all while I was in the bathhouse?” “Yes. But, like she said, it must have been coming on for sometime.” Goodrun was not sure. It could have been a left-over from her spell which made Pickings smile and be nice. “Where is she now?” “She’s been sent to a Home for Distressed Teachers. It’s a place where they go when they can’t control themselves any more and start being nice. They have intensive courses in being rotten again but some of them never make it. Whew! I can’t stand that soap smell much longer!” “I said it would wear off! Don’t keep on!” grumbled Goodrun. Then Murky came into the dormitory. “Ugh! Soap! I feel sick! I hate soap. I’ve had nightmares about soap ever since I was a baby.” “Look! There’s nothing I can do till I get dirty again!” cried Goodrun. “So just shut up, all of you!” She could feel the hot tears prickling behind her eyes. But what good would it do if she cried? Nobody would understand and it would only make her feel worse — if that was possible. In spite of all her recent efforts, her friends still poked fun at her 74

because her spells went wrong too often. Even when they worked they caused trouble. Why did Evilyn’s spells work and not hers? And why did she tell on her? Goodrun would never do that to Evilyn. She felt very alone. It was no good writing to her mother; she was far too busy and probably would not understand. Nor would her stepfather. He was always saying, “Our little Evilyn is witch enough for both of you!” “No, she’s not!” thought Goodrun. “I’m a witch too!” She slid her hand under the pillow where she kept her treasured, old brown envelope. Inside was an elaborate certificate belonging to her father which was given to her at her naming ceremony. When Goodrun felt miserable, holding the envelope gave her some comfort. She would often go to sleep dreaming of him although she had no idea what he looked like. She only knew from Aunt Nettle that he had been a magician. Goodrun promised herself that once the exams were over, she would ask her mother all about him. Hayzell had begun to tell her once, then changed her mind and never spoke of him again. “If Mother won’t tell me,” thought Goodrun, “I can always ask the Aunts.” And, with her hand on the envelope, she drifted off into a deep sleep. 75

Chapter Thirteen

G

oodrun awoke sometime in the early hours of the morning, and could not get to sleep again. She tried counting the spiders on the wall and the cracks in the ceiling and when that did not work, she did some last-minute studying but her brain felt like a lump of lead. Evilyn, also awake, refused to do any more work. “What I don’t know, I’ll make up!” she said, as she lay on her bed filing her fingernails to little, sharp points. Then something large flew past the window. Goodrun got there just in time to see several broomsticks landing on Madame Necromancy’s roof, and a dozen or so witches sliding down the drainpipes, disappearing silently into the fog and mist below. Madame Necromancy had let it be known months ago that because the Moon and

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Jupiter happened to be in the right place at the wrong time, and because depressions and strong winds were on their way up from the Azores, the pre-Halloween meeting would be held at the academy that year. Nobody in the witch world questioned such a decision. Madame Necromany had a doublefirst Honours Degree in Astrology (the star signs) and Meteorology (the weather) as well as her esteemed qualifications as a Witch of the First Order. She was also unique, as a witch, in having completed a correspondence course in shorthand. She saw the strange shorthand symbols as an excellent security code for her secret formulae and mystic research projects. “The Halloween witches have arrived,” said Goodrun. “They’ll be here all through the exams. Do you think Mother’s included?” “No!” said Evilyn. “She’s not in this committee. Some of the Aunts might be though; the very old ones.” “Like Aunt Nettle?” “No, she’s retired. Didn’t Mother tell you?” “Perhaps. I must have forgotten. This may sound a silly question, Evilyn, but do all witches retire?” “Of course not. Some go on for ever, but Pickings said there’s a high casualty rate.” 77

“Do you mean accidents?” “‘Course I do. Any spell can go wrong, can’t it? If the wind changes or there’s three Fridays in a fortnight. Just think, there must be hundreds of toads or frogs or lumps of stone about that were once witches!” “Oh!” Goodrun gasped. “Really?” “Why not? Some of them could have gone up in a puff of smoke, or turned inside out, or exploded!” Evilyn was warming to the idea. “Or disappeared and not been able to re-materialize. They could be walking about now and we wouldn’t know!” “How terrible!” said Goodrun. “Just one of those things,” said Evilyn nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t happen to witches of real quality.” “You mean like Mother or Madame Necromancy?” “Or me!” Evilyn admired her nails and then tried them out on the bedcovers. They made a sharp, scratchy sound like a cat’s claws on a carpet. “Why do you think Nettle’s been retired?” asked Goodrun. “Outlived her usefulness! I suppose there’s a limit to how long our powers will last. Aaaaaah!” Evilyn yawned. “I’m going to sleep now. Wake me when the bell goes!” How her sister could sleep when there was so little time before such important 78

exams, Goodrun could not imagine. Murky and Greasey were also snoring loudly. Untroubled minds, thought Goodrun, knowing that hers was exactly the opposite. She was not going to wait for the bell, wake Evilyn and then be last in, so she got dressed, sneaked out of the dormitory and went downstairs to the main hall where the exams would take place. The hall was Madame Necromancy’s pride and joy. It was dark, damp and musty. Massive pillars, encrusted with snails and slime, supported a high, arched roof. Years of untouched cobwebs filled the corners and looped themselves from pillar to pillar like swathes of dirty netting. Madame Necromancy liked to make the hall as comfortable as possible and never repaired the broken windows or the ill-fitting doors. It was her thoughtful way of leaving somewhere for an icy draught to sneak in. Today, she had left a tap running in the sink so that the persistant drip, drip of the water could be heard by the examinees while they worked. Goodrun was not the first to arrive. There was already a huddle of cold, nervous witchlings outside the door in spite of the early hour. The bell, when it went, made them all twitch furiously. Boh-oh-oh-ong! Boh-oh-oh-ong! 79

Its sonorous tone echoed round the towers and up into the dormitory where Evilyn, Greasey and Murky awoke and stretched. The hall doors opened at seven o’clock and the first written examination began 15 minutes later. At two o’clock that afternoon the doors opened again and the exhausted witchlings trailed out. At nine o’clock the following morning until six o’clock that evening, with only half an hour for lunch, they Were in the laboratory doing their potions, pills and poultices. On the third day, they were tested on the history and theory of spells. The written exam lasted from midday till eight o’clock. When it finally ended the witchlings, eyes bleary and fingers numb from so much writing, staggered out of the hall and went straight to bed. The last examination was the one they all looked forward to — “The Practical”. Evilyn was like a firecracker, popping, fizzing and hopping about with excitement. Goodrun, by contrast, felt sick with worry. She dreaded this exam. Writing and learning about witchcraft was one thing but actually putting it into practice . . . “Well,” she thought, as they lined up in front of Madame Necromancy to get their assignments, “I can only do my best!” 81

Chapter Fourteen

M

adame Necromancy gave them each a sealed, gold envelope with the word “Practical” stamped on it. “Take it away with you,” she commanded. “Read it carefully. Don’t let anybody else see it. Do what it says and then come back here, at once! Your test will be in the mortal world, so don’t hang about! Don’t get caught in trees and don’t lose the envelopes. I shall need them next year! That’s all! Dismissed!” As the witchlings turned to go, Madame Necromancy added, “And I do not expect any failures!” Once outside, envelopes were hastily ripped open and the contents read. One by one the witchlings began to disappear. Some floated thoughtfully away, still reading their assignments, some disappeared on the spot, and some faded gradually. Evilyn, dramatic as ever, exploded in a cloud of pink dust, 82

leaving behind only her torn and empty envelope. Goodrun read her assignment several times. It said: “Beware the Fates! The cruel fair will drown in stormy sorrow. But cast a spell, and fill the well, Walpurgis Night the morrow.” “Oh dear,” she sighed. “That doesn’t mean much to me and it isn’t Walpurgis tomorrow. Walpurgis is Halloween and that’s not till the end of October. Beware the Fates, The cruel fair . . . Oh, I don’t know!” Goodrun was now the only one left. She did not feel confident enough to zap herself somewhere, even if she knew where to go, so she decided to go by broomstick. Once in the air Goodrun felt happier. She repeated the assignment several times over as she flew along. “The cruel fair drown in stormy sorrow . . . but cast a spell and fill the well . . .” She was so deep in thought she had no idea how far she had travelled and almost flew into a huge raincloud that appeared out of nowhere. Swooping down and round the cloud, she saw a lot of activity in the field below. There were lots of people laughing and wandering about, children carrying silver balloons, some throwing balls at 83

coconuts and old china, and others riding on brightly-painted roundabouts. She could also hear somebody calling, “Roll up! Roll up! Lots of fun at the fair!” A fair! That was in her assignment. A large banner was stretched over the entrance to the field and it said, “BARNSTACK VILLAGE FETE”. A fete! Goodrun was sure she was on the right track now. But what was she supposed to do? While she thought about it, she kept out of sight behind some large trees. Then the raincloud caught up with her and hovered over the field, casting a dark shadow. “Oh, blow over,” thought Goodrun, but it didn’t. The cloud, heavy with water, suddenly burst, spilling its contents all over the field and the fete. It was like a giant bath being emptied. Goodrun flew into a tree to keep dry. She felt sorry for all the people running for shelter and sorry for the fete. “I wonder if I could move that cloud?” she said, and she knew that was the answer. “The cloudburst is a test. My assignment said a fete will be drowned. But does that tie up with Walpurgis night? Oh!” She nearly fell off her broomstick in excitement. “Of course. The witches are having their Halloween rehearsal at the academy tomorrow and they’ll need bad weather. That’s it! I’ve done it!” 84

But first of all she had to move the cloud. It was easy enough to send it away, but difficult to send it to a particular place. Goodrun tried hard to will the cloud away. Within seconds a strong wind blew up and the cloud rolled over the fields, taking the rain with it. She could hear it rumbling and grumbling in the distance as it built up speed. “Good!” she thought. “With any luck it’ll be a full-sized thunderstorm by the time it gets back. All that’s needed now is a bit of sun to dry this field and, hey presto!” It was a silly old saying, and nobody used it these days, but Goodrun felt happy enough to chance it. When the sun came out it was warm and strong. The villagers continued with their fete and Goodrun, very pleased with herself, was now confident that she had successfully completed her assignment, and it was only a matter of hours before she would become a full-witch. Anxious to get back she urgedher broomstick skywards but it refused to move. Something was holding her back. Was her cloak caught in the branches? She tugged it round her. No. Oh drat! The twigs of her broomstick had become entangled with the twigs on the branches and there was no hope of prizing them apart. The more she tried, the more they knitted together. 85

“Oh, you fool!” she cried, hopping mad with herself. “How many times have you been told never to go into a tree on a broomstick! Oh, pook! If I don’t get back to the academy, my Practical will be counted as a failure. Oh, Goodrun! How could you be so silly!”

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Chapter Fifteen

G

oodrun knew the only way to get out of the tree, and back to the academy, was to disappear and re-materialize. Unfortunately, she had not yet perfected materialization. She could disappear alright but, more often than not, would reappear in the same place. How she envied her sister who could zip and zap and materialize wherever she wished. But, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life in the tree, Goodrun had to do it and she had to do it properly. Closing her eyes and using every bit of her magic powers, she concentrated hard on being elsewhere. How long she sat in the tree with her eyes shut tight she had no idea. But when she opened them again she was back in the academy. Well, not exactly in it, but on it! She was sitting astride the dormitory roof. Not what she had intended to do but, as it 87

happened, it was the best place to be because the Witches Academy of Black Art was flooded. Torrents of water gushed through the open gates and swirled round the courtyard, surging in and out of the academy’s doors and windows, taking with them bottles of potions, books of spells, jars, jugs and cauldrons as they rushed along. Assorted items of furniture bobbed along in the raging water and a flotilla of screeching, fire-spitting, pot-boiling-angry, wet witches clung on to anything they could get hold of. Goodrun stared in horror at the terrible scene below. Then Evilyn suddenly appeared on the roof beside her. “What took you so long? We’ve been back ages!” “I had a bit of trouble,” mumbled Goodrun, unwilling to admit she had been stuck in a tree. “But what’s happened?” “A deluge!” said Evilyn. “A flash storm and a cloud burst! Tremendous stuff! I saw it all.” “Couldn’t anybody stop it?” “No. Not even Madame herself. Which means it wasn’t ordinary weather. It was a spell!” “Oh, no!” Goodrun felt weak. She felt ill. “That was my Practical!” she gasped. “Yours? You mean, you did this? Hey!” Evilyn yelled down to some of the younger 89

witchlings leaning out of the dormitory windows. “Hey! My sister did this. No more witch school! No more academy!” The witchlings squealed with delight. “I wish I’d done it!” shouted one of the older ones. “Oh no, you don’t!” Madame Necromancy, looking surprisingly dignified, floated into the courtyard, standing on her upturned desk. In her arms she held some books and several pieces of rolled up parchment. She looked up at Goodrun and pointed a terrible finger. “So it was you, Goodrun Badmanners. Do you realize what you have done?” Her voice echoed round the courtyard. “You have destroyed hundreds of years’ research into Evil. You have ruined my precious manuscripts. The only copies in the world!” she wailed. “Lost for ever! There will be no Halloween celebrations this year because you, YOU, have drowned my meeting AND MOST OF MY WITCHES! I shall never forgive you for this, Goodrun Badmanners. You are not leaving this academy, what is left of it; you are EXPELLED! As of NOW! And don’t think you are getting your diploma because you’re NOT! So there!” The last few words were screamed back at Goodrun as the water surged again and Madame Necromancy shot through the academy gates. Goodrun and Evilyn watched 90

her speed out into the flooded countryside, clinging to the legs of her desk. “Well, that’s that!” said Evilyn, when she had disappeared from sight. “I don’t care what happens now! I’ve passed! Double Black Honours!” “Well done!” said Goodrun faintly. “But I haven’t. And I’ve been expelled. Oh, Evilyn. What am I to do?” “Let’s pack up and go home,” said Evilyn. “I want to show Mother and Father my diploma!” There was not much to pack. Personal possessions were frowned on at the academy, although Goodrun had kept that precious brown envelope that had belonged to her father. She stuffed it, her spare clothes and a few books into her drawstring bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’m ready!” she said, wondering what on earth she was going to say to her mother when she saw her. And holding hands, Goodrun and Evilyn zapped themselves home.

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Chapter Sixteen

B

“

ut why did you do it?” Hayzell asked Goodrun when the girls were home again. “It’s really very serious, you know. Flooding the academy! Destroying all that research into Evil.” “I didn’t mean to do it. My assignment said, ‘Beware the Fates, The cruel fair will drown in stormy sorrow. But cast a spell and fill the well, Walpurgis Night the morrow!’” “Well?” said Hayzell. “Well, I found a fete which was in danger of being washed out. I thought that must be the sorrow bit. I wasn’t sure about filling the well, but it obviously had something to do with water. Then I thought Madame Necromancy would want bad weather for the Halloween Rehearsal. So . . . well, you know the rest.” “That’s the trouble with people who can’t spell and people who can’t SPELL!” crackled 92

Evilyn. “It was ‘Fate’ with an ‘a’, not ‘Fete’ with an ‘e’ — so you had that wrong. The cruel fair referred to those irritating people who are fair-minded; ‘cast a spell and fill the well’ simply means making a wish. You were supposed to find a few fair-minded people, make them do something nasty, then collect up all the evil atmosphere you’d created, and use it on a Walpurgis night. Easypeasy.” “I would never have thought of that,” said Goodrun. “I’m sorry, Mother. Are you very disappointed with me?” “Evilyn,” said Hayzell, “go and talk to your father, will you? He’s in the attic with the bats. I want to have a private word with your sister.” When they were alone, Hayzell put her arm around Goodrun. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said. “You see, dear, I half-expected something like this would happen but you were getting on so well. This last year you really have been rather horrible and Blackheart and I were so pleased with you.” “I know,” sighed Goodrun. “But it wasn’t easy.” “No, but there is a simple explanation to that and I should have told you before. You see, Goodrun dear, you are only half-witch.” 93

Goodrun’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? What is the rest of me if it’s not witch?” Hayzell swallowed hard. “Nobody knows this, not even the Aunts, although I think Thunder suspected . . .” “Suspected what?” “That you are half-witch and half . . . mortal.” Goodrun gasped. “But how? I don’t understand.” “Oh it’s not my fault. Your ancestry on my side of the family is impeccable — pure witch — going back forever.” “Then . . . it’s my father.” “Yes.” “My father is a mortal?” “Was a mortal.” “Was? Is he dead?” “I’m afraid so. He was killed just before you were born, by a particularly heavy chest of drawers which fell on top of him one day.” “Chest-of-drawers?” “He was a furniture salesman,” said Hayzell, “but a magician in his spare time. Only an amateur, but I didn’t know that when I met him. He was performing at a concert and it was love at first sight. He could make birds appear from nowhere. Swallow swords and eat fire. Saw people in half and put them together again. He was a charming man and very handsome. Well, I thought so, though 94

some didn’t. I’ve tried to give you a good witch’s education but I’m afraid there is too much of your father in you. I’ve suspected for some time that you inherited his kindness, his compassion, and such mortal feelings have no place in a witch’s make-up!” “What was his name?” asked Goodrun. “His professional name was Marvo the Magnificent but his real name was Cornelius Smith.” “Smith? You mean my name isn’t Badmanners?” “No.Your real name is Goodrun Smith. I’m so sorry.” “I’m not!” said Goodrun. “I hated being called Badmanners! But how does this help? I’m not a witch and I am a witch! What am I to do?” “I’ve thought about that and it’s been all arranged,” said Hayzell. “You’re going to live with Aunt Nettle!” “Where? I thought she’s retired!” “Indeed she has, and lives in a little cottage in the mortal world. She has so few powers left nobody suspects she is a witch. But she is getting old and forgetful and needs help. I wouldn’t be happy if you were living on your own and Nettle will appreciate your company.” “Will I be able to come back and visit?” asked Goodrun. 95

“Of course! You’re still part-witch. Although, sadly, it’s the smaller part, and you’ll always have the powers you inherited from me, and all the spells you’ve learnt too. It’ll be strange at first but I think you’ll feel more at home in the mortal world. “Mother, that envelope you gave me, the one you said belonged to my father. What is it?” “Oh, now that will be useful!” said Hayzell. “I’d forgotten about that. There’s a savings certificate inside. It could be worth a lot of money by now. It’s no use to me but you’ll need it. Mortals use money to acquire things.” “To think I’ve wasted all these years trying to be a proper witch,” said Goodrun. “Now I know why Evilyn and I are so different.” Hayzell smiled. “Tomorrow, we shall visit Aunt Nettle. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Her cottage is very ordinary. It’s old and a bit run-down. No secret passages like our wonderful mansion. But I’m afraid it does have a bathroom. Mortals are obsessed with washing.” It sounded wonderful to Goodrun — even the bathroom. As a mortal she would not have to be nasty or wicked and could enjoy being kind, and as a witch she retained all her magic powers — including being able to 96

fly. That night Goodrun went to bed dreaming of the cottage in the country and her new life. For the first time ever, she felt truly, truly happy.

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