WITCHES IN TROUBLE Large Print

To Crystal Rose

PIP POLLINGER IN PRINT Pollinger Limited 9 Staple Inn Holborn LONDON WC1V 7QH www.pollingerltd.com First published by EPB Publishers Pte Ltd 1994 This edition published by Pollinger in Print 2007 Copyright © Val Thame 1994 All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-905665-27-3 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 1

M

adame Fustia Necromancy had once been in charge of a famous establishment for the training of young witches. She was a malevolent old harridan with an evil disposition and had, therefore, made an excellent Head Teacher. Everybody hated her at the Witches Academy. Pupils and teachers alike cowered in her awesome shadow and dreaded the sting of venom which lay on her acid tongue. But the Academy was no more. Fustia Necromancy was Head of nothing and nowhere. Her Witches Academy, once housed in her large un-stately home, had been ruined, ravaged, by a terrible flood. Years of research into evil had been reduced to soggy 1

ruins. Rare potions, ancient documents, irreplaceable objects from Fustia’s foul family treasures, had been swept out to sea on the rushing tide of floodwater. Goodrun Badmanners, one of the finalyear pupils at the Academy, watched in horror from the dormitory roof as the floodwater swirled round the courtyard below, surging into doorways and spilling out of windows, bringing with it a cascade of desks, chairs and tables. But this was no ordinary flood; this was magic, her magic, and it had all gone terribly wrong. Goodrun had never been very good at witchcraft, unlike her brilliantly wicked sister, Evilyn, but she had worked hard at the Academy and hoped that one day she would graduate from witchling to witch. She had just returned from her practical examination to find the Academy suffering from a freak storm. “Goodrun Badmanners?” The feared, harsh voice of Madame Necromancy made Goodrun jump. She looked down to see her ex-Head Teacher floating past on her upturned desk, a quivering finger pointing in her direction. “You little toad!” screeched Madame Necromancy. “No diploma for you. You are expelled. You are the worst pupil I’ve ever had. I know this storm was your fault. 2

You’ve ruined my life’s work and I shall never forgive you. Nevarr! Neva-a-arr!” As she spoke dozens of old crones floated out of the Academy, bobbing about in the water like old black sacks. It is well known that witches hate water and their terrified screams echoed eerily round the courtyard. Goodrun shuddered. The air was so full of dark curses it made her feel ill. “Brilliant?” said Evilyn, who was also watching from the roof. “How did you do it? I wish I’d thought of it.” “It was my final exam,” said Goodrun, miserably. “It was supposed to be a spell of bad weather, but I think I overdid it a bit.” “A bit?” Evilyn nearly fell off the roof, laughing. “Hey, you lot!” She shouted down to the other witchlings who were hanging out of the dormitory windows. “You know what this means? No more Academy. No more school!” The pupil witches screeched and cackled their delight and some of the younger ones, who were still unable to cackle properly, whistled noisily as, led by Evilyn, they chanted, “No more Academy. No more school!” Then another cheer went up as the waters surged again and Fustia, and her flotilla of angry witches, shwooshed through the school gates. 3

“I’ll be back!” cried the old hag. “I’ll be ba-a-ack!” But nobody thought she would, or cared if she did because they wouldn’t be there. School had ended once and for all. Madame and her horrible rules had been washed away and a whole flock of little witchlings, including the Badmanners sisters, were suddenly free.

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Chapter 2

F

ustia, and her desk, eventually arrived at the North Pole. A place of extreme cold, where wicked thoughts came very easily. She went to the North Pole every year for her annual holidays. She stayed at the bleak and uncomfortably chilly North Pole Hotel, and it did her the power of good because she always came back feeling contentedly wretched. The twin witches who looked after the hotel were Fustia’s friends. One was called Alice and the other was Honore. Alice was a dull and dreary witch without a single original or any other thought in her head. Honore had all the brains and hated her boring sister because she pinched all her 5

best ideas. Both were affected by the extremely low temperatures. Both were shrivelled and wizened, their thoughts icy, their feelings frozen. The only thing that was not affected by the weather was their temper. That was as hot as ever. The twin argued constantly over who was cleverest, who was the oldest, who was the dullest (which Alice always won) or who was the ugliest. When they argued they fought and sparks flew from their teeth and their toenails, and flashes of coloured lights filled the dark northern sky. They were arguing when Fustia arrived. She saw the sky streaked with light and knew that Honore and Boring Alice were at it again. People living in the northern hemisphere saw the pretty lights in the sky and said to their children, “Look. Look. Honore and Boring Alice.” But they didn’t know that the fantastic Northern Lights were really a display of witchy temper. Fustia stayed with the frosty twins until she could stand their petty squabbling no longer and one day, in a thoroughly bad mood induced by cold and irritation, she left the North Pole and flew down to the south. Although equally cold the South Pole was largely undiscovered and witch-free. She stayed there for several weeks, smouldering and brooding and occasionally erupting into 6

fits of burning rage. Her hot temper floated upwards into the atmosphere, and into the ozone layer, where it burned a small hole. A hole just big enough for a curious witch to poke her nose through, and then her whole head. News of the hole soon spread and witches began dropping in by the dozen. In no time at all the South Pole had more witches than penguins. Fustia hated it. She wanted to be alone. But these over-crowded and uncomfortable conditions made her feel so wonderfully crabby and entirely intolerant she decided it was time to go. So, bitter and twisted, suffering from chilblains and riddled with revenge, she returned to her flood-damaged home. It was a grim ruin. Its windows shattered, its walls running with slime, and creatures of unbelievable ugliness nesting in every crack and crevice. But she was back and that was all that mattered. She rolled up her sleeves, put on her best pinny, her rubber gloves, and set to work. She worked night and day, hardly stopping to eat, restoring the house to its former dreadfulness. She scrabbled about in the kneedeep mud, left behind by the floodwater, searching for her lost possessions, her cauldrons, computers and coat hooks. She scrubbed and scraped the rooms most affected by the flood and 7

then tackled the ones damaged by weather. It took weeks, and all the time Fustia had but one thought on her evil mind. “This is all your fault, Goodrun Badmanners. I blame you for this.” Her pique made her work even harder, tearing at the rotting woodwork. “And where are you now?” she wailed. “Remember, a wailing witch never forgets. I’ll have my revenge on you. See if I don’t.” And so she brooded and cursed and scrubbed and planned. She wasn’t going to run a school anymore. Witchlings were hard work and unpredictable. You never knew what they might do next. She had turned out hundreds of horrible little worms from her Academy and not one of them was grateful. No, Fustia was deter-mined not to do that again. Teaching was out. She was going into publishing. She was going to edit a magazine for witches. The Hag Mag would supply inside information on what makes a witch tick or a watch tock. It would be sneaky, fun-poking and treacherous. It would give away free secrets with every issue. It would be a telltale, tittle-tattling, roaring good read for hags of all ages. Fustia allowed herself a satisfying smile. She might even become rich as well as powerful. But first she had to find a pack of lying, deceitful and 9

untrustworthy witches for her team of reporters. She cackled merrily as she went indoors and up to her bedroom. She opened a box on her dressing table and took out a pair of gold, hoop earrings, gypsy earrings, and clipped them onto her ears. Then she covered her thick, white hair with a beaded scarf which she tied at the back of her head. Last of all, she wrapped a long, fringed shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes glittered as she admired herself in the mirror. “Well, Gypsy Dogrose,” she said, to her reflection, “as soon as my new magazine is published we must find that pest, Goodrun Badmanners.” She rubbed her gloved hands together. “And I think I know how we shall do it.” A brilliant and devious plan was forming in Fustia’s maggotty mind. A plan that, in her eyes, could not fail.

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Chapter 3

A

fter the flood the Badmanners sisters went home to Badmanners Mansion. Their mother, the beautiful witch Hayzell, though disappointed to learn that her eldest daughter had failed to become a proper witch, was delighted with the news that Evilyn had a diploma with double-black honours. Cakes were concocted, friends were invited round and parties held. Evilyn basked in the glory of her success, but nobody took any notice of Goodrun. “She’s useless,” sneered Evilyn. “Can’t even spell properly.” And everybody laughed. Goodrun moped about the house feeling utterly miserable. What was she going to 11

do? She had no diploma and no friends either. She hadn’t made any at the Academy because, unlike all the other witchlings Goodrun had no fear of water and, even though it was against the rules, washed regularly. She smelled so clean none of the pupil witches wanted to sit next to her. But she didn’t care. She hated that Academy and the old crones who picked on her all the time because she was kind, generous and thoughtful – qualities which were not the slightest use to a proper witch. But then, one day, her mother said, “But you aren’t a proper witch. You are half mortal.” “What? Why? How?” “Well, it’s my fault I suppose for marrying your father. But he was so handsome. I fell in love with him while he was sawing a woman in half.” Goodrun was stunned. “But that’s terrible.” “No, it was only an illusion, but I thought it was real magic. Cornelius Smith, or Marvo the Magnificent as he. called himself on stage, was nothing more than a simple mortal. You, Goodrun, have inherited many of his mortal qualities but, sadly, only a few of mine.” “Where is he now?” asked Goodrun. “He died when you were a baby. Then I met and married your stepfather, Black-heart 12

Badmanners, such a wicked warlock and, shortly afterwards our little Evilyn was born.” “I see,” said Goodrun, who now understood why she and her sister were so different. Why Evilyn had done so well at the witches school, and why she had not. Her half-sister was all-witch, from the roots of her red hair down to her pointy, scratchy fingernails. When Evilyn found out that her sister was only half a witch she taunted her mercilessly. The air was full of spitz and sparks and Hayzell quickly realized something had to be done. She felt sure Goodrun would be happier in the mortal world, with other mortals, and she arranged for her to live with their ancient aunt, Nettle Patch. Nettle had long ago retired from witchcraft and had her own cottage in the village of Hook. Goodrun did not mind leaving Badmanners Mansion or the witch world and quickly settled down to her new life. She made new friends and even went to a new school. Gradually, the Witches Academy and Fustia Necromancy became blurred and fading images from another world. A world she would much rather forget.

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Chapter 4

B

ut the witch world had not forgotten Goodrun. Blissfully unaware that she was at that moment the object of Fustia Necromancy’s venomous plans, Goodrun was sitting in class trying to think who married this playwright person called William Shakespeare. It was a Monday and, after a rain-soaked weekend, perversely hot. The classroom was stuffy, the pupils were restless and Henry Binks could have thought of a thousand places he would rather be than cooped up with a bunch of assorted eleven and twelve-year-olds, trying to teach them something they obviously did not want to know.

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“Not once,” said Mr Binks, irritably tapping Goodrun’s exercise book, “not once have you mentioned Shakespeare’s wife. Why?” Goodrun did not know why. What she did know was that she was finding life at this new school surprisingly difficult. “Are you still with us, Smith? Or have you nodded off?” Mr Binks’ voice sliced through her drifting thoughts. For a brief moment she did not even realize he was talking to her because she still was not used to being called Smith. Changing her name was one of the first things she did when she came to the mortal world. She wasn’t Badmanners; she was a Smith. “I know it’s hot,” said Mr Binks, wearily, “but do try and pay attention. I’d like to nod off. We’d all like to nod off, but the fact is we have a lesson to get through. So, the name of Shakespeare’s wife, please.” “Um. Mrs. Shakespeare?” said Goodrun. The class groaned. Mr Binks said, “Very funny. Open another window, Birchett. Some of us are obviously suffering from the heat.” Martin Birchett, who sat at the front, obliged and more hot air wafted in. “You have one more chance,” said Mr Binks. “Now use your brain. Think.” 15

Goodrun felt everybody was looking at her. Sniggering at her. Somebody was tugging her skirt. It was her best friend, Daisy Blazer. “Anathaway,” she whispered. “What?” “Just say it. Go on.” “Anathaway,” repeated Goodrun. “Thank you, Smith. Ann Hathaway. Next time we’ll get to the point a little quicker, shall we?” He strolled over to the window and took a few deep breaths. “Now then. Hands up, anybody. When was Shakespeare born?” Goodrun sat down and smiled her thanks at Daisy. The girls were first cousins (on the Smith side) and lived next door to each other. But neither Daisy nor her parents, knew anything about Goodrun’s ‘other’ family, the Badmanners; nor did they suspect for a minute that their elderly neighbour, Miz Patch, was a retired witch. And Goodrun had no intention of telling them. After English Form 1A had Geography. Goodrun could cope with that. She’d done Geography at the Academy, but History was a mystery as was French in the afternoon. As for the lesson on the environment, she had no idea things were so bad in the real world. Polluted rivers, mountains made of waste and holes in the ozone layer . . . What a mess. She tried to look intelligent and 17

make sensible remarks but was awfully glad when the day finally ended. Walking home with Daisy she said, “You know, I feel so stupid, sometimes.” “So do I,” said Daisy. “Most first years do. We’ve all come from different schools and learned different things. I knew about the pollution because we did a project on rivers at junior school – and I knew about Shakespeare because we’ve got all his works indoors.” “You got his works?” Goodrun looked surprised. Daisy nodded. “Yes. A complete set.” “A set? But I thought . . . do you mean Shakespeare was a robot? And you’ve got all his works?” Daisy laughed. “You are a fool,” she said. “I suppose I am,” thought Goodrun. “A 16th century robot,” said Daisy. “That’s a laugh. Hey. Tell you what. We’ve got a spare set, somewhere. You can have it if you like.” Goodrun wasn’t altogether sure she wanted a spare Shakespeare. She wasn’t altogether sure what she would be getting, but Daisy insisted. On their way home they passed the village post office and Daisy stopped to read a poster in the window advertising a fair on Hook common. “See Daring Delbert’s Death-defying escape. And look into the future with Gypsy 18

Dogrose. Ooh, I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told.” Although the sun was still hanging Goodrun felt shivery. She hoped she wasn’t getting a cold. She began to walk on, anxious to get home. “Wait!” Daisy wanted to read every last word on the poster. “Do you think Gypsy Dogrose will have a crystal ball?” She cupped her hands in front of her. “Aah. I see a tall and handsome young man with fair hair. He is in the second year. He wants to go out with you.” “Not Philip Drew? On, come on, Daisy. He’s a drip.” “He is not! He’s a super runner.” “Oh, a running drip.” Goodrun ducked as Daisy swung her school bag round. “Alright. Alright. I didn’t mean it.” “He’s lovely,” sighed Daisy, as they walked on. “I don’t know why you don’t like him.” “He’s alright,” said Goodrun, adding under her breath, “if you like stick insects.” They were almost home when they saw another poster for the fair stuck on a tree. Daisy stopped again. “It’s next Saturday,” she said, wistfully. “Shall we go? Ask you aunt tonight and I’ll ask my parents.” Goodrun hesitated. She had that shivery feeling again. “Well, alright,” she said. 19

“What’s the matter? You don’t sound very keen.” “Oh, it’s nothing. I think I’m starting a cold.” The girls parted at Daisy’s gate, stopping only briefly to say goodbye but as Goodrun opened the gate of Nettle’s cottage a large piece of paper, caught by the breeze, floated across the garden and wrapped itself around her. She peeled it off. Another poster. Perhaps she was meant to go to the fair after all. She folded the poster and put it in her saggy bag, meaning to read it properly later on. As soon as she got indoors she ran upstairs to change out of uniform and into something comfortable. She pulled on a pair of old jeans and a floppy shirt and studied the effect in the mirror. A red-haired, greeneyed girl stared suspiciously back. Were those eyes extra green? “Evilyn?” she said, prodding the mirror. “Is that you?” The reflection re-acted just as it should, copying Goodrun’s movements exactly, and Goodrun decided it was not her younger sister after all. But it could have been. Goodrun knew, better than any, that Evilyn could never be trusted. She might turn up anywhere and at anytime. She had before, and when she did there was usually trouble. 20

Chapter 5

H

“

ow’s the cold?” said Daisy, when she called for Goodrun the following morning. “Cold? Oh, false alarm. That funny feeling wore off.” “Good. Did you ask about the fair?” “Yes. That’s okay.” “Oh, great. I’m so looking forward to it.” Daisy talked of nothing but the fair all the way to school but once inside the gates her attention was taken by Philip Drew. “Oh,” she gasped. “There he is. Has he seen me? Isn’t he the best? And so tall.” “That’s only because of his legs,” said Goodrun, who couldn’t imagine what Daisy saw in him. 21

“It’s cross-country this afternoon,” said Daisy. “First and second years running together. I thought, well, I’m going to try and run with Philip. You don’t mind, do you? Just this once?” Goodrun shook her head. “No.” “You see, I might get to talk to him,” said Daisy, dreamily, “and then . . . who knows?” This cross-country running puzzled Goodrun. She thought it was the oddest thing to do. They weren’t going anywhere. And why run? Witches never run. They hardly ever walked. There didn’t seem any point when you could zap from here to nowhere in two ticks and if it wasn’t as far as nowhere there was always the trusty broomstick. Daisy was tugging Goodrun’s arm. “Who are you dreaming about?” “Nobody.” “Oh yes? Pull the other one.” Goodrun wondered what Daisy would say if she knew she was actually thinking about riding a broomstick. The first lesson that morning was Maths, a double period which Goodrun found almost impossible. Even her Academy training in Science and Magic Formulae did not help. The Maths teacher, Miz Sparks, kept saying things like, “Goodrun Smith. I’m surprised at you. Twelve years old and you don’t know your tables.” 22

Of course she knew her tables. They were the things that went with chairs, but what had they to do with Maths? Goodrun did not understand this. It was all so confusing. The second double period, after the break was English with Henry Binks. “It must be one of those days,” sighed Goodrun, when she got nought out of twenty five in the surprise test. “Stand up, Smith.” Goodrun stood. “It seems the only thing you’ve got indisputably right on this paper,” said Henry Binks, who sounded very tetchy, “is your name.” As one or two of the clever-clogs began sniggering, he commanded, “And that’s enough! In fact, nobody did very well.” He strode purposefully between the desks. “The highest mark was only fifteen. And most of you, I’m ashamed to say, only got between five and ten. That is miserable, 1A. Miserable!” Miserable it might be, thought Goodrun, but what wouldn’t she have given for a five right now. “I should have cheated,” she thought. “If I’d used witchcraft I could have got twenty or twenty five, easy-peasy. Evilyn would have cheated. Evilyn would have been top of the class. Mr Binks had stopped by Goodrun’s desk. He was holding up her test paper. “I can’t 23

believe this,” he said. “You must have heard of Charles Dickens.” Goodrun nodded. “Yes, sir.” “But you don’t seem to have read any of his books?” “No, sir.” Mr Binks scratched his head. Goodrun lowered hers. It was no good pretending. She not only hadn’t read Dickens she hadn’t read any proper books. “And what’s this rubbish you’ve written about the Brontes?” said Mr Binks. “The Brontes, surprising though it may seem to some of us, are not currant buns . . .” He silenced the snorts of laughter with a raised hand. “The Brontes were three sisters in a famous literary family. And Wuthering Heights is a novel by one of those sisters, Emily Bronte. It is, Smith, a classic of English Literature and has nothing to do with a horse’s anatomy!” Hoots of laughter now filled the classroom and Henry Binks had the greatest difficulty in restoring order. Goodrun’s cheeks were burning and she felt so embarrassed, so silly. She wished she could disappear. She wished she’d left the paper blank. Anything rather than suffer this humiliation. Why for two pins! She could feel herself getting hotter and angrier. Just supposing she did disappear. That would 24

show them. That would stop their silly giggling. “Sir? Sir?” Martin Birchett was stabbing the air with his outstretched arm. “Sir? Have you read any good buns lately?” After that the class went wild. “Sir? Would you like half of my jam Bronte?” “Hey! Anyone heard of the Bun sisters? There’s Emily Bun, Charlotte Bun . . .” “That’s enough!” shouted Mr Binks. “Be quite, Birchett. Sit down, Smith. And quiet! Everybody!” Henry Binks went back to his desk. He flopped into his chair, undid his tie and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he said, “See me after school, Smith. Something has got to be done. This is just not good enough.” “Not good enough?” thought Goodrun. “Well, it makes a change from not being bad enough.” But it didn’t make her feel any better. Evilyn was right. She must be an idiot. She had failed as a witch and it looked as though she was going to fail as a mortal, too. She did not fit in anywhere. She was so worried she could not concentrate on anything for the rest of that morning and knew that the essay she handed in was full of silly mistakes. All through lunch she brooded 25

over her misfortune in being born half witch and half mortal. Was it her fault she’d had a different sort of education? And how many witches had ever heard of the Brontes or used multiplication tables? Evilyn didn’t have to worry about such things. Evilyn did not worry about anything. Goodrun wondered where her younger sister was and what she was doing. Was she out on her broomstick or at home in Badmanners Mansion?

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Chapter 6

B

ad manners Mansion was a sight to send shivers up any sensible spine. Its spiky silhouette prodded the sky with its claw-like turrets ready to snatch at any passing cloud that did not pass quickly enough. The stone walls ticked with slime and the hundreds of hooded windows frowned at the merest glimmer of light. Inside, the gloomy atmosphere was even more chilling. It smelled of damp, dust and foreboding. The front door was permanently locked and the chandeliers were never lit even on the darkest day. The hideous furniture, covered in a grey lace of cobwebs, lurked in doorways and hovered in corridors, gloating and threatening like the old house itself. It 27

was not a pleasant place, nor was it meant to be. Bui Evilyn Badmanners loved every grim bit of it. It was her home, and it was the place that inspired most of her bad deeds. Evilyn was, at the precise moment Goodrun thought about her, draped over the draughty rafters of the West Tower reading a new magazine called The Hag Mag. She thought it was the best magazine she’d ever read. It had everything Advice on how to be ugly, such as ‘Spots and How to Acquire Them’. A recipe page, ‘Sick-making Recipes for your Worst Enemies’. A ‘Best Buys’ column, a ‘Keep-Fit’ section and the usual ‘Faggots’ and ‘Maggots’. Under the heading ‘Maggots’, Evilyn saw a special offer that really appealed to her. Putrified Remains of Unwashed Socks, Boiled Cabbage and Dustbin Dregs. Hundredweight Sacks at HALF PRICE! Guaranteed to stink for days or your money back.

She drew a ring around it. She also ringed another advertisement under ‘Faggots’. FOR SALE Canned Witch’s Breath Guaranteed to be Bad. Old Stock. Must Go. Buy two and get our special aerosol of Foul Temper FREE! 28

Apart from pages of scandalous articles there were also several gossip columns. Evilyn read and digested every last word, screeching with delight when she saw that an extremely well-known society witch had false warts and that the feared Witch Pickings hated the dark and took a teddy bear to bed with her at night. “Wow-wee!” cried Evilyn. “What a hoot.” At the back there was a listing of all the Boil-Ups (a witch’s equivalent to a Bar-B-Q). Evilyn was delighted. She could go to one every night if she wanted. On the ‘Letters’ page, somebody had written in to complain about not being able to get to some of the Boil-Ups because they were below the O.L. (Ozone Layer), which acted as a barrier to the young and lower order witches. But another letter from Sneaky Sarah said she had found a hole down by the South Pole. “This route,” wrote Sneaky Sarah, “makes it tons easier to get to the Boil-Ups and a short-cut to creating havoc – you know where! Hope this map helps.” And she had drawn a map of exactly where the hole was. Evilyn made a note of that too. The magazine also carried a page of job advertisements. One, in particular, caught Evilyn’s eye. 30

WANTED! Untrustworthy witches as reporters. No scruples needed. No finer feelings required. If you are dishonest, ruthless, underhanded, love gossip, tell tales and lie a lot then The Hag Mag needs YOU. Apply now to the Editor: Fustia Necromancy.

Evilyn grinned. “So old Madame Necromancy has given up teaching, has she? That’s interesting.” Evilyn had been kicking her heels until they were sore since Goodrun left home. She hadn’t been able to find any mischief or meddling worth doing, and the result was she had been bored sensible. A state she could stand no longer. This reporter’s job sounded as though it was made for her. After all, she had excellent qualifications. She had been mean and spiteful from birth and could prove it. Her father still proudly carried the scars of her baby teeth marks on the back of his hand. She was certainly untrustworthy and was the biggest fibber of all time. There was nobody better suited to be a Hag Mag reporter. She read the advertisement again. Only those who really detest fair play need apply. The Hag Mag is not an equal 31

opportunities employer nor does it pay well. So there!

And at the bottom was another note in very, very small print. Evilyn wondered if it was an eyesight test for it was so extremely small. In fact, even she, who had eyes as sharp as new pins, had to use a magnifying glass. If you don’t want it generally known that you are doing such a despicable job, or to make spying easier, don’t use your real name when applying. P.S. I hate myself for saying this and I hope you can’t read it. THE EDITOR

“What a cunning wheeze,” cackled Evilyn. “Nobody with a speck of a brain would tell me their secrets, but if they didn’t know it was me, if I used another name?” She chortled wickedly. It was not a pleasant sound. “Okay. Let’s go. This job’s as good as mine.” She floated down the tower’s spiral staircase to the basement where her father had his study. She took a sheet of parchment from his desk-drawer, a quill pen from his ink pot and began to write. She wrote very quickly and had soon finished the letter 32

of application as well as several well-forged references. She finished with, ‘Yours insincerely’, and then she paused. “Now, what shall I call myself? How about – Diane? Nobody would suspect a Diane. Much too nice. In fact, much, much too nice. I’ll call myself Di for short. But Di what?” Her eyes narrowed. “I know. Di Abolical.” She signed her name with a flourish and several blots. She spent the rest of the day in bed thinking about the job and never once gave a thought to Goodrun or anybody else. But that was nothing unusual. That was Evilyn. She only enjoyed thinking about herself.

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Chapter 7

M

eanwhile, Goodrun, still feeling low, was getting ready for crosscountry. She was feeling so grumpy she was glad she was not running with Daisy or anybody else, for that matter. She would not be the best of company. As she changed she thought about all her problems. On the good side, she loved Ivy Cottage and dear Aunt Nettle. She had her own room which was heaps nicer than the horrible bedchamber she had shared with Evilyn. And, best of all, she had found Daisy. A real cousin living next door. On the bad side, she had to go to school again. This had been a big shock to her. Witches left school when they were ten or twelve, some even

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earlier and it was hard to believe she had to stay there until she was sixteen or twenty one. “Mortals must be very stupid to need all that schooling,” she thought, as she joined the others at the school gates. Numbers were given out and the runners were sent out in batches of ten. Daisy, all pink-cheeked and twittery, was in the second batch and Goodrun saw her race off like a mad thing to catch up with Philip Drew, who was in group one. Goodrun jogged along on her own at the back of group five, the last to go. As she ran all sorts of questions flitted through her mind. What was Mr Binks going to say to her? She wasn’t doing well enough? That was painfully obvious. Should she tell Aunt Nettle? Call her mother? Goodrun decided not to do either. They wouldn’t understand. This wasn’t a witch problem. This was something real. Something she had to sort out for herself. She was so caught up in her thoughts she didn’t know how she reached the common. She couldn’t remember getting there and might have jogged back to school in the same dreamy state if some scrap paper, blowing across the grass, had not distracted her. The rest of group five ran through without taking any notice but Goodrun, 35

because she had a tidy mind, stopped and picked some of it up. More posters for the fair on Saturday. Goodrun retrieved as many as she could and put them in a nearby litter bin. She felt slightly shivery again. Was it because she had stopped running, or was it that funny feeling when something was going wrong? She looked around. Something was wrong. The rest of group five had disappeared. She must have wasted too much time picking up those posters. She ran on and, hoping to catch them up, took what she thought was a short cut back to school, but it wasn’t. She didn’t know where she was. “Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said to herself. “You can’t be lost.” She looked at her watch. Three-thirtyfive? And her appointment with Henry Binks was at four o’clock. She came to a quick decision. She would have to zap herself back. She knew it was a risk. There was always the chance it might go wrong and she would end up somewhere she did not want to be, but it was a chance she would have to take. She closed her eyes and concentrated hard on getting back to school. “Zip-zap. Straight back!” She re-materialized in a phone box near the school. The street was empty. Not 36

another runner in sight. Being last didn’t matter. Goodrun was so pleased to be back in the right place. She stepped out of the phone box and jogged casually up the road and into the school gates. “Well done, number forty three. You’re first.” The teacher with the clipboard was looking straight at her. “Don’t just stand there. Keep going, forty three. Shower and change as quickly as you can.” Goodrun jogged on towards the gymnasium in a daze. Coming in first was the last thing she had meant to do. How would she ever explain it? She had finished showering and was dressed again when Daisy came crashing into the changing room, flushed and happy. “I kept up with him,” she said, flopping out onto a bench. “All the way. And what do you think? He wants to go out with me. Yees!” She punched the air. “Hey. D’you know who won today? Philip said it must have been a fast time. Could even be a school record.” “Really?” said Goodrun, her face as red as her sports bag. “Well, it was me. It must have been one of my better days. It’s about time I came first in something.” She kept her fingers cross as she spoke because she knew it was a lie and she’d had a rotten day. 37

“You?” Daisy jerked upright, her eyes wide. “You came first? You beat all the second years?” Goodrun had to admit it sounded ridiculous because Daisy knew she wasn’t any good at sport. The first time she’d played hockey everybody hooted because she held the stick upside down. “Can’t talk now.” Goodrun was anxious to get away. “Got to see Mr Binks. Tell you all about it later.” And she rushed out of the changing room before a stunned Daisy could ask any more awkward questions. Goodrun feared the worst as she knocked on Henry Binks’ door. “I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say I’m not up to standard and I shall be asked to leave. Expelled from two schools in two months. I wonder if that’s a record, too.” She was beginning to think that living in the mortal world was not such a good idea, after all, when the classroom door opened. “Come in,” said Mr Binks.

39

Chapter 8

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s expected, Henry Binks had a lot to say. He had all her test results and comments from other teachers spread out on the desk before him. “I can’t understand this,” he said. “I know you are an intelligent girl because you do remarkably well in some subjects, such as Biology and Physics . . .” Goodrun silently thanked the old witches for making her learn the poisonous plants index and for the day-long Meteorology lessons on clouds and weather forecasting – so dull, yet so vital to a tra-velling witch. “ . . . and Geography,” Mr Binks was saying, “but in others you are extraordinarily bad. Extraordinarily bad.” He rubbed his forehead. 40

“Most unusual. But, as your form teacher, I’ve given this some serious thought, and I can only think you are naturally lazy and not making full use of your brain.” Goodrun nodded dismally. The fact that it wasn’t true didn’t seem important. “But,” said Henry Binks, “if you intend to stay in 1 A, then you are going to have to work much harder. So, I am going to give you extra homework, starting to-night.” Homework? Is that all? Homework? She wasn’t going to be expelled? Relief washed over Goodrun like a warm shower and she cheerfully agreed to do any amount of extra work. “Four hours? Each night? Oh, no. That’s alright, sir. I can manage.” And every night that week Goodrun did her four hours of homework and handed it in the following day. It wasn’t easy and she did not enjoy it. By the time Friday evening came she was exhausted and looking forward to a day off school. To a day at the fair. Daisy was bubbling over with excitement when Goodrun called for her the following morning. “Martin Birchett, you know, sits at the front, wears rimless glasses and smelly T-shirts, well, he told me he’s already seen Daring Delbert. Last week over at his 41

grandparents’. He says Delbert hangs from a crane by his feet, tied up in a straight jacket. Then they set light to the rope that’s holding him and he has to get out in, gosh, I don’t know, a few minutes.” “Wow! Does he do it?” “Well, of course he does or he wouldn’t be here today, would he?” Goodrun could see the logic in this. “But,” said Daisy, “apparently he had only seconds to spare. The rope had almost burned through. Martin also said Gypsy Dogrose was there as well.” “Gypsy Dogrose? I wonder who she really is,” mused Goodrun, who knew perfectly well that ordinary mortals could not tell fortunes or see into the future. “What’s it matter?” said Daisy huffily. “She could be the school cleaner for all I care.” “Sorry.” Goodrun was beginning to realize that this fortune-telling business was very important to Daisy. They walked to the Common, which was not very far and, although they got there fairly early, there was already a crush of people in the Fairground. They had both taken packed lunches and they ate them after watching Daring Delbert’s death defying escape, which he managed quite successfully, and then they bought an ice-cream each and tried their 42

luck on the Hoop-la stall. Daisy won an inflatable duck. One tent stood a little apart from all the others. It was blue-striped, tall and thin and dappled with silver stars which glittered in the sunlight. The roof of the tent was drawn upwards into a point through which a pole extended. A flag fluttered from the pole which had “Fortunes” written on it in orange day-glo paint. They stood outside for a while, entranced by the dazzling tent. “Do you think Gypsy Dogrose is in there?” said Daisy. “I suppose so.” “Mystic,” breathed Daisy. Goodrun wondered why the tent was on its own, away from the others. The happy atmosphere of the Fairground did not seem to extend this far but Daisy did not seem to notice. She was more concerned with finding a way in. “There must be an opening somewhere.” The two girls walked right round the tent and back again. “Ooh. What’s that?” Daisy was pointing at a large sign stuck in the grass. “It wasn’t there just now.” “Must have been,” said Goodrun, although she did not remember it either. “It says 50 pence for palm reading, that’s so you can cross her palm with silver, and one pound for a peep into the future.” 44

“Ooooh. I must have a go,” said Daisy. “But how do I get in?” Suddenly, a triangular flap in the tent flipped open, revealing a second patch of triangular blackness. “This way,” said a voice from within. “This way to your future.” “Oooooh,” said Daisy, gripping Goodrun’s arm. “It’s creepy, isn’t it?” “Well, you’re the one who wanted to come,” said Goodrun, who did not care to admit that she too felt nervous. But why, and what of? Not Gypsy Dogrose. That would be silly. It was probably only Mrs Pantry from the Wool Shop. Or it might be Jessica Don, the TV actress who lived in the next village. But why would somebody as famous as Jessica Don dress up as a gypsy and sit in a stuffy old tent? No, it was probably Mrs Pantry. Anyway, they would soon find out. Daisy was fumbling about in her purse. “Are you coming in with me?” “Only one at a time,” said the voice from the tent. It made both girls jump. “You go,” whispered Goodrun. “I’ll wait outside.” “Alright,” said Daisy. “But don’t go away.” She put her head into the dark velvet triangle and Goodrun watched anxiously as her cousin disappeared from view. 45

Chapter 9

I

t was very dark inside the tent and coming straight in from the bright sunlight Daisy’s eyes could not adjust quickly enough. She could not see a thing. “Sit down.” The silky voice came from behind. A chair was pushed under her and Daisy sat. Gradually the darkness became less intense. Her eyes felt less strained. The blanket of black began to melt away and a shape began to form in front of her. “Palm or fortune?” “Both please,” said Daisy, nervously but eagerly. “That’ll be one pound fifty.” “Oh no, sorry. Just fortune then, please.” 46

“One pound.” The gypsy’s scarf fluttered and two gold earrings twinkled in the half-light. For a fleeting moment Daisy thought she could see a face. But it was nobody she recognized, and she did not really want to know who it was. It would spoil the atmosphere. She put the coin into the outstretched hand and was surprised to see that Gypsy Dogrose was wearing leather gloves. A cloth was removed from the table and Daisy gasped as a crystal ball was revealed in all its sparkling and mysterious beauty. The gypsy leaned over the dazzling ball. She waved her gloved hands and the light dimmed. Daisy was thrilled. This was better than she had expected. Neither of them spoke as Dogrose gazed into the crystal. After what seemed like ages she said, “Live here with your parents, do you?” Daisy nodded. “Yes.” She thought the gypsy said “drat” but maybe she was asking if they had a cat. “Sorry? What did you say?” “Sssh,” said Dogrose. “Don’t interrupt. I see your home. I see flowers in your garden. Many flowers.” “Well,” thought Daisy, “that’s not very clever.” She began to wonder if she’d wasted her money after all. 47

“I see dandelions,” said Dogrose, “and daisies. Do you like daisies?” “Yes. My name is Daisy.” The minute she said it she regretted it. Fancy giving her name away. That was for Gypsy Dogrose to find out. That’s what she’d paid her pound for. “You have many friends,” mumbled the gypsy, “and one means more to you than the others.” Daisy’s heartbeat quickened as she thought of Philip. “He does,” she sighed. “He? Did you say he?” The gypsy sounded disappointed. “Oh. In that case, it’s probably that thin boy.” Then as if she had lost interest, she said, briskly, “I see much happiness in your future. You will do well in your exams. I see no illness. Next, please.” “Wait a bit.” Daisy felt cheated. “This boy you can see. What’s his name?” “His name?” Dogrose rubbed the crystal with the edge of her sleeve, muttering darkly about ‘some’ people wanting a lot for their money. “Stew or Pew. Something like that.” Daisy was delighted. “Drew. That’s right. Oh, thank you.” She thought the session was over but the gypsy raised her hand. “Just one more thing, Daisy Blazer, duckie.” Her voice was smooth and syrupy. 48

“I feel you did not come alone. That you have a girl friend with you.” “That’s right,” said Daisy. “My cousin.” “Your cousin?” Dogrose’s voice was no longer smooth and syrupy but sharp and acid. “Ergh!” She waved Daisy away. “That’s no good.” As she dropped the cloth over the crystal ball Daisy was sure the gypsy accused her of having bad manners. She stood up to go. “Goodbye and thank you very much,” she said, extra politely. But Gypsy Dogrose appeared to have fallen asleep or gone into a trance. The mystical, mysterious atmosphere had gone. “Well?” said Goodrun, when Daisy came out again. “Is Philip Drew in your future?” “He might be,” said Daisy, smugly. “It’s ever so creepy in there. Are you going in now?” Goodrun felt a sudden rush of unexplainable panic. “No, not yet,” she said. “Let’s do something else, first.” Daisy was Gypsy Dogrose’s last customer that day. “I’m sick of all this fortune telling,” she said, smacking the crystal ball and knocking it onto the grass floor of the tent. “Great Croaking Toads! I should have found her by now.” 49

She pulled off the beaded scarf reveal-ing a plain, podgy face with dark eye-brows, deep set eyes and a bulbous nose. The unlovely face of Madame Fustia Necromancy. “This is the seventy-sixth beastly and boring fair I’ve been to and that was the thousand and tenth horrid little child to whom I have told my best fortunes, and still I haven’t caught that wretched Badmanners creature. Aaaaaargh!” The girls heard Fustia’s howling scream as they were about to board the ghost train. “Scary, isn’t it?” giggled Daisy. Goodrun’s flesh tingled. “Yes,” she said, but she didn’t think it was the ghost train that was making her feel scary. It was something else. Something much worse. Something she could not, for the moment, explain.

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ustia’s bunions were giving her great pain, not that she minded because it usually meant she was close to success. As she rubbed her burning feet with soothing unctions she wondered how long it would be before she found that ghastly Goodrun Badmanners. She had spent a lot of time and energy trying to track her down and was now beginning to have doubts about the effectiveness of her plan. She had been 99.9% certain that no child could resist the temptations of a fortune teller. She had been at every tedious fair, boring fete and unfunny Fun Day waiting for that green-eyed, red-haired menace to walk through the flap in her tent 51

and when that happened she was ready to pounce. But it hadn’t happened. Something or somebody was getting in the way. Frustrated by her lack of success at the Hook fair and anxious to know how her magazine was getting on, Fustia decided to pack up her tent and go home. She exploded into her old bedroom, now The Hag Mag office, feeling out of sorts and out of luck, a condition which was not improved by the sight that met her needlesharp eyes. Witch Grimgrime, a toady old hag who had been deputizing for Fustia, was lying back in the plumply upholstered, swivel chair, her scabby feet on the leathertopped desk, her personal stereo stuck in her ears and a contented, if idiotic, grin on her face as she messily sampled the contents of a bag of jam doughnuts. Fustia’s entrance rocked the building. The filing cabinets wobbled, the desk shook and the swivel chair, thrown off balance, fell over backwards, tipping the old witch and her doughnuts into a large waste bin. “Oh? You’re back,” said Grimgrime, struggling out of the bin. “Obviously, you stupid old crab,” said Fustia. “I’m back and you’re out! Remind me never to leave you in charge again, you dozey old crone!” 53

Grimgrime was old and thin and her joints cracked as she tried to straighten up. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” she whined, bobbing a series of ungainly curtsies. “I knew you’d be pleased to see me.” “OUT!” cried Fustia. Bobbing and dribbling jam, Grimgrime hobbled out of the room. Fustia almost threw the door after her. “Ridiculous old baggage!” She had a mountain of mail on her desk, none of which, it seemed, had been opened since she left the office two months ago. “Thin lot of good she’s been.” The letters were covered in dust and sticky with jam. Impatiently Fustia zapped everything into order, then started reading the letters, especially those applying for the reporter’s job. “No. No. No. No.” She said as she sorted through the letters, discarding most, hardly bothering to read some. “None of these will do. No. Too old. No. Too simple. No. No. No.” Then, “Oh, ye-es!” She read one letter very carefully. “Yes. This sounds better. Yes, Miz Di Abolical. You sound absolutely beastly and totally un-trustworthy. Just what I’m looking for.” She marked the letter with a big tick. Then she shouted, “Grimgrime? I know you’re listening, you old faggot. Hobble inside at once!” 54

The door opened immediately and Witch Grimgrime, her eyes red and bloodshot from looking through too many keyholes, crept in. “Take a letter,” said Fustia. “To Miz Di Abolical, Box Number . . . Nine, blot, blot, blot.” Now Grimgrime should have sent the letter by carrier-crow but being a nosy old body, she quickly discovered that Miz Abolical lived in a house called Badmanners mansion. Grimgrime wanted to see this mansion, which had a ‘reputa-tion’, so she decided to deliver the letter herself. As soon as she saw the hideous old pile of bricks Grimgrime fell madly in love with it. “Oooh,” she sighed, as she floated round one of the cloud-covered turrets, “what wouldn’t I give to live here!” The answer to which was nothing. Grimgrime did not own anything, except her broomstick. She also lived by the witches code, of which Rule 14 states: ‘Always take, sometimes swap, never give.’ She floated down to the dark and unwelcoming front door and rattled the ugly gnomes’ head knocker. Evilyn jumped up. She had been sitting behind the door every day since she applied for the job on The Hag Mag – waiting and waiting for a reply to drop through the letter box. 55

“Who is it?” she shouted. “I am the bearer of a secret, highly confidential and very private message,” wheezed Grimgrime, trying to sound mysterious and important. Evilyn knew she should tell whoever it was to go round the back because the front door was never opened, but her curiosity was aroused. She pulled back the ten rusty bolts and turned the great iron key. The mighty door of Badmanners Mansion creaked open for the first time in years. Evilyn was as surprised to see the wizened old crone on her doorstep as Grimgrime was to see a young witchling. “Are you Di Abolical?” said Grimgrime. “I certainly am,” said Evilyn. “I’m diabolical, I’m fiendishly clever, I’m wicked, I’m awesome . . .” “No, no,” said Grimgrime, peering again at the name on the envelope. “Are you Miz Diane Abolical? If you are, I’ve got a letter for you from the Hag Mag.” Evilyn suddenly remembered her false name. “Yes. That’s me. Give it here.” She snatched the letter from Grimgrime’s sticky fingers and slammed the door in her face. Grimgrime, who was well used to Fustia’s rough treatment, nonetheless thought Miz Abolical extremely ungrateful and bad56

mannered. She made a mental note of the whereabouts of the mansion and its sullen occupant and immediately began nursing a grudge which was rubbing round her ankles. Grimgrime picked up the grudge, which was quite a big one, and put it in her pocket along with all the other grudges that she carried around with her, most of which had yet to be paid back. As soon as the door was shut Evilyn forgot about the old witch and tore open the envelope. “From the office of the Editor,” she read. “Be informed that you are now an official reporter for The Hag Mag and as such will be expected to send in an article a week, of not less than 500 words, until further notice.” Evilyn howled with delight. “Simplepimple.” The letter went on to say how The Hag Mag wanted inside information on all the goings-on in the witch world. If there wasn’t anything going-on, then Evilyn could make something up. Untruths, even downright lies, were acceptable to the Editor so long as the article was in keeping with the magazine’s general ‘house style’, which was basically despicable. The last paragraph quoted rates of pay and a private Hag Mag post box where reporters were to send their articles. It was 57

all very secretive because the last thing Fustia wanted was a cackle of curious witches finding out where she lived and poking their long noses into her publish-ing house and its devastating secrets. Evilyn sent a letter of acceptance back straightaway and when Fustia read it her bunions burned so much her boots caught fire. “How curious,” she thought, as she plunged her scorching feet into a bucket of ice-cream, which she always kept by her for such emergencies. “I wonder what they are trying to tell me?”

58

Chapter 11

I

f it had not been for her mother paying a surprise visit Goodrun would not have given another thought to the witch world or what was going on in it. As it was, the beautiful Witch Hayzell appeared one evening while Goodrun was struggling with fractions and decimals. “Have you seen this new magazine everybody is talking about?” she said, draping herself elegantly over Nettle’s favourite armchair. “Sorry?” “It’s all the rage. Called The Hag Mag? But I don’t suppose that sort of thing interests you anymore. Did you know I’ve been twice round the world this week? Found an 59

exquisite little tornado in the Bahamas. There’s not much weather here, is there? Don’t you get bored without weather?” Goodrun put down her pen. It was impossible trying to concentrate on homework while her exotic mother was there. Aunt Nettle, beads a-jangling and cups rattling, wobbled in with a tray of tea. “How very countrified,” declared Hayzell, as if it were something she would never want to be. She delicately sampled a crumb or two of Nettle’s homemade carrot cake. “My, but you two are so settled and so . . .” She searched for the right word, “. . . ordinary.” Hayzell chatted on for a while about the latest witch gossip and then she got onto her favourite subject, bad weather. “Which reminds me, that little tornado of mine will be just about ready. I must fly.” She hugged and kissed her daughter tenderly. Then she said, “Don’t you ever have spots, Goodrun?” “No, Mother.” “Never mind.” Hayzell smiled. “I expect you will one day. Now, I really must go. Goodbye all.” And the magnificent witch Hayzell disappeared as she always did, in a beautifully perfumed puff of pink. Goodrun sighed. Lovely and clever though her mother was she lived in another world 60

and could never understand real life problems. She wondered how such as amazing witch had ever managed to fall in love with her father – an ordinary, mortal, furniture salesman. “Well, he was a magician as well,” said Aunt Nettle, inadvertently reading her thoughts. Then she saw the look of surprise on Goodrun’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to pry. That sort of thing just happens sometimes. I can’t help it.” Goodrun spent that night tossing and turning and fretting about her homework. She hadn’t understood half the Maths questions and didn’t know where to begin on the English essay. Daisy had given her a book of Shakespeare’s plays, which should help, but it was at least 15 centimetres thick and would take her a lifetime to read. The following day she handed in her unfinished Maths assignment to Miz Sparks with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Miz Sparks took one look at it and immediately put her down for detention that evening. “A fraction,” she said, screwing up her mouth as if her lipstick tasted of lemons, “a fraction is not a broken bone, Goodrun Smith, and sound is not measured in decimals.” The rest of the class hooted and Miz Sparks got extremely cross, threatening 61

them all with detention too if they did not, “Shut up at once!” When order was restored she turned her attention to Goodrun’s homework again. “I hope you weren’t trying to be funny, Goodrun Smith, because I am not amused. Mixing deci-mals with decibels! I sometimes wonder if you do it deliberately.” Goodrun fought back the tears. Of course she wasn’t doing it deliberately. Did Miz Sparks really think she wanted to be laughed at, or for people to think she was an idiot? She was trying to learn but she had too much to do in too short a time. So it was, that on Friday afternoon, she found herself the only pupil in the detention class. Henry Binks, who was on detention duty, kept grumbling about having to stay behind for one person when he had wallpapering to do. She had been sitting there for fifteen long minutes and the wooden chair was getting harder by the second. She looked up and arched her back. “Keep writing, Smith,” said Henry Binks. “Fifty decimals. Fifty fractions.” She began writing again, “60 over 145 is . . .” She yawned. She was so tired. She’d go to bed as soon as she got home. It was Saturday the next day and she could sleep all day. Oh no, she couldn’t. Daisy wanted 62

her to go to the Fun Day. She and Drippy Drew were going together. Their first date. Drippy Drew was supposed to be bringing a friend for Goodrun but she wasn’t sure she wanted a friend of Drippy’s, but Mrs Blazer had said Daisy could only go with Philip if Goodrun went as well. So, she had to go. She couldn’t get out of it. She yawned again. Henry Binks was doing a crossword and trying to look as though he wasn’t eating sandwiches, which he clearly was. “You might give me one,” thought Goodrun, her stomach groaning. “Alright, Smith, you can go home now.” Goodrun looked at her watch. Ten minutes early. “Oh, thank you, sir.” She closed her book, picked up her bag and slid out of her seat. “And what do you think you’re doing?” said Henry Binks. “Going home, sir. You said I could.” “I said nothing of that sort. Sit down.” “But, sir!” “Sit. There’s another ten minutes to go.” “It’s because I’m tired,” thought Goodrun. “I’m hearing things.” Eerie laughter drifted round the classroom. Goodrun recognized it immediately. Henry Binks was studying his crossword and 63

had obviously heard nothing. She noticed a certain redness to his fair hair, a redness that wasn’t usually there and his usually blue eyes were a startling green. “Evilyn,” she thought, miserably. “Just my luck. What’s she doing here?” To her surprise, Evilyn did not bother her anymore during detention and did not materialize until Goodrun was on her way home. “Still at school?” she sneered. “Some of us have got jobs, you know.” “A job? What sort of job?” “Not telling,” said Evilyn. “But it’s miles better than being at school.” “I expect it is.” Goodrun was too tired to argue. They walked along in silence for a while and then Evilyn said, “It’s very dull here, isn’t it? What d’you do for fun?” “Well, as a matter of fact I’m going to a Fun Day tomorrow. We have one every year.” Evilyn shrieked. “Frog’s legs! This I’ve got to see. If you only have one I wouldn’t want to miss it.” Goodrun could feel her shoulders sagging. The thought of Evilyn at the Fun Day was too terrible to contemplate. “Are you coming in?” she said, when they got to the gate of Ivy Cottage. “Aunt Nettle will be pleased to see you.” 64

“Might do,” said Evilyn. “What are you doing tonight?” “I’m not doing anything,” said Goodrun. “I’m going to have my tea and then I’m going to bed.” “How boring,” said Evilyn. “But then you always were.” Goodrun had had just about enough that day, of Miz Sparks, of Henry Binks and definitely of Evilyn. “Oh, boring am I? Well, see if you think this is boring?” She zapped her sister into a tall yellow, sunflower and stuck her in the front garden. Caught by surprise, Evilyn was unable to say or do anything to stop her. “And let’s hope,” said Goodrun, “that Anut Nettle doesn’t come out and cut yo down before morning, because she hates flowers. Especially big ones!” And feeling better already, and not half so tired, she went indoors.

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he following morning, when her irritation had been smoothed and soothed by a few hours’ sleep, Goodrun began to think she might have acted a bit hastily where Evilyn was concerned. She knew it had rained in the night and she got up early intending to reverse the spell, but when she looked out of the window the giant sunflower had gone. “Well, it wasn’t a strong spell,” she said, “and the rain probably washed a lot of it off.” She yawned. “Aaah-well, it’s no good worrying over a lost sunflower even if it’s my sister.” And anxious to get in a bit more sleep before breakfast she tumbled back into bed. 66

Meanwhile a wet and bedraggled Evilyn, her shoes heavy with mud from her planting and her normally frizzy hair lank like seaweed, dripped her way back to Badmanners Mansion. Her shoes squelched as she paddled round the house looking for something to curse. She shouted and stamped for over an hour, trying to get rid of her bad temper which, for once, refused to go. She kicked the furniture and punched the cushions. The eyes of the ancestral portraits, which lined every room, followed her everywhere, watching her every move. “Who d’you think you’re staring at?” she sneered. The paintings gasped at such rudeness and Evilyn, losing her temper at last, drew silly glasses or ridiculous moustaches on every one of them. She felt so grumpy and sour-tempered she decided to write her articles for The Hag Mag. That would get rid of a lot of ill-feelings. And it did. These illfeelings floated out of Badmanners Mansion and into the The Hag Mag office where they were gleefully picked up by Fustia Necromancy. “Of all the poxy things,” she cried. “How much longer must I wait for those articles from Di Abolical? I can see I shall have to write them myself!” 67

With an angry sweep of her arm she cleared her desk. “And get up off my floor!” she snarled at Witch Grimgrime. “You make the place look untidy.” Grimgrime, who was fed-up with looking through keyholes, was stretched out in front of the door, pretending to be a draught excluder. In her simple way she thought she had discovered a new method of eavesdropping. When Fustia growled at her she got up and crawled under the desk. “If only I could find that young, redhaired, green-eyed pest of a Badmanners,” groaned Fustia. Bells began to ring in Grimgrime’s currant of a brain. “Badmanners. Badmanners,” she muttered softly, and one of the little grudges crawled out of her pockets. She stroked it gently as her dried-up brain started working again. She knew, because somewhere she’d overheard it said, that Fustia Necromancy had been searching for somebody all summer. But until now, Grimgrime, had been unable to find out who it was. “Red hair. Green eyes. Young,” mumbled the old witch. She scratched her warty chin. Now where had she seen somebody like that? “Di Abolical!” she shouted, jumping up and banging her head on the underside of the desk. 69

Fustia yanked the old crone out by her collar. “I know it’s diabolical, you stupid old crab. It’s a diabolical crime and it’s making my bunions twitchy.” She rubbed her highlaced boots, which had several large bunions of their own. “No, no,” said Grimgrime, dangling like an overgrown bat at the end of Fustia’s strong arm. “No, listen.” She wriggled with excitement at the thought of paying back a grudge and helping her beloved Editor. She was sure to be rewarded. She might even get a title. She fancied a title. Baroness Grimgrime or maybe the Dishonorable Grimgrime. She liked that better. “What would you say,” she whined, “if I told you where your Badmanners creature is, eh? And what would it be worth?” Fustia looked sideways at the trembling rag bag of clothes that clawed at her sleeve. “What would you want?” she said, dropping the horrible Grimgrime onto the floor. “A title,” said Grimgrime. “It’s yours,” Fustia lied. “Now, where is she?” “She works for you,” cackled the old witch. “She’s your new reporter. She’s Diane Abolical.” “Di?” gasped Fustia. “My Di? Are you sure?” 70

Grimgrime was absolutely certain. She told Fustia how she had seen her at Badmanners Mansion and how she fitted the description exactly. It must be her. It was her. “Fetch!” said Fustia, pointing. Grimgrime disappeared but returned less than two minutes later with Evilyn protesting loudly. “Let me go, you silly old fossil. I’ve done the articles. I said I would, didn’t I?” “Forget the articles,” said the new, creamy voice of Madame Necromancy. “It’s you I want.” Then her tone changed. “You horrid little toad. Thought you could ruin me, did you? Ha! Well, I’ve got you at last.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about?” cried Evilyn. “It was me who told on you,” wheezed Grimgrime, thrusting the grudge into Evilyn’s unwilling hands. “You were rude to me and now I’m paying you back.” The room was now overflowing with illfeelings. Evilyn felt it all around her. Not only ill-feelings but a considerable amount of bitterness and a good chunk of malice. Evilyn was frightened silly. She knew from experience that her old Head Teacher could dream up the most awful punishments. “This is all a mistake,” she wailed. “You’ve got the wrong person.” “No, we haven’t,” said Grimgrime. “Red hair, green eyes, young, name of Badmanners?” 71

“Yes but . . .” “Enough!” said Fustia. “You can’t wriggle out of this a second time.” “No. Wait!” Evilyn saw a chance of paying Goodrun back for making her spend the night in the garden as a soggy sunflower. She stroked Grimgrime’s grudge. “Look. You want my sister, not me. You want Goodrun Badmanners. I’m Evilyn. The clever one. You must remember me. I got my diploma with double-black honours.” Fustia gave Evily a long hard look, then she suddenly turned to Grimgrime. “Wrong again!” she shouted, knocking the old witch’s hat off. “You’re fired, you dozy old crab. Fired. Do you hear me? Get out!” Grimgrime shuffled out of the office nursing yet another grudge. “Sit down, Evilyn,” said Fustia, her voice now parcelled in the purest silk, “and tell me all you know.” Evilyn did not hesitate. She had no finer feelings and did not know the meaning of the word ‘loyalty’. She told Fustia everything including where Goodrun lived. “Hook?” cried Fustia. “I’ve just been there. No wonder my bunions were burning. How on earth did I miss her?” “She’s changed her name,” said Evilyn. “She’s called Smith now. And if you want to 72

find her, I can tell you exactly where she’ll be this afternoon.” Fustia’s eyes sparkled when she heard about the Fun Day and she showered Evilyn with promises she had no intention of keeping. Evilyn went home quite content with the doing of her dark deed and Fustia, equally content, went up to her new bedroom in the attic. She sat down at her dressing table and, once again, put on the beaded scarf and the golden hoop earrings. She began to laugh, and the sound of her hollow laughter rattled round the sky like thunder. Down below in the kitchen of Ivy Cottage, Great Aunt Nettle heard the rumblings and said, “Sounds like a storm brewing.”

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he sky was grey and lifeless when Goodrun awoke. She felt a bit grey and lifeless herself although her mood had nothing to do with the weather. Henry Binks had given the class a surprise project for the weekend. A story, essay or article on the environment to be handed in Monday morning. Form 1A had protested loudly. Some complained that they had to visit grandparents, or were going away for the weekend or climbing Mount Everest but Mr Binks would accept no excuses. “It doesn’t have to be long – just excellent.” Another one of his well-used and unfunny jokes. 74

Goodrun had meant to start work as soon as she got up, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what to write. Of course, if she didn’t go to the Fun Day, or if it was cancelled due to bad weather, that would give her more time to think. She could even go to the library. Get a few books out. Such thoughts chuntered through her mind while she ate her breakfast. Aunt Nettle, who had been up for ages, had already finished eating and was reading the newspaper. “Have you seen this, dear?” she said, flapping the paper across the table. “Summers becoming winters. Winters getting warmer. Forests disappearing and new deserts taking their places. What does that sound like to you?” “Sounds dreadful,” said Goodrun, who was only half listening. “Sounds like a piece of organized witchcraft to me,” said Nettle, deftly catching the two pieces of burned bread that shot out of the toaster. “Howzat?” she chuckled. She scraped off the black bits and spread the charred ruins with marmalade. “Well,” she munched, “what do you think?” “I think we should get a new toaster,” said Goodrun. “No, that bit in the paper. What do you think about it?” “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound good.” 75

“Mmmm,” said Nettle, “you’re right. It’s bad. So bad it must be witches’ work.” “Witches’ work? What do you mean?” She read the article carefully. It was about the world’s changing weather patterns. How the seasons were changing. Spring wasn’t always at springtime and summer sometimes slipped into winter, missing autumn altogether. Some parts of the world had floods and others, drought. “We have lessons on the environment,” said Goodrun. “Do you realize how important trees are to life on earth?” “Of course, I do,” said Nettle. “I might be old but I’m not an old idiot. Witches treat trees with great respect. For instance, did you know that trees can live without people but people can’t live without trees?” “Yes. Mr Binks said trees absorb the carbon dioxide gases, which we don’t want, and exude oxygen, which we do. We can’t live without oxygen so we can’t live without trees.” “Precisely,” said Nettle. “But it says in the paper,” said Goodrun, “another problem is a hole in the ozone layer and too many of the sun’s harmful rays, like the ultra-violet ones, are getting through to earth.” “Ultra-violet?” mused Nettle. “I used to know a witch called Ultra-violet. Very pale sort. Easy to forget she was there.” 76

“There’s also an excess of carbon-dioxide in the atmosphere,” said Goodrun, “caused by burning fossil fuels.” “Who’s been burning fossils?” cried Nettle. “But I’m an old fossil. That’s not allowed.” Goodrun smiled. “Not old fossils but fossil fuels. Things like coal. Fossilized trees which have turned into carbon.” “Oooh?” said Nettle. “I wonder why you can’t mend this toaster if you’re that clever.” “I’m only telling you what it says here. It also says the carbon-dioxide creates an extra roof over the earth and everything underneath is getting hotter and hotter. That’s why it’s called the greenhouse effect.” “Greenhouse. Schmeenhouse!” said Nettle. “If that’s not witches’ work,” she tapped her chest, “then my name’s not Nettle Patch. And it is! So there’s no point in talking about it anymore.” Nettle was obviously very peeved and started hurling her breakfast things into the sink. Goodrun made a hurried exit saying she had work to do and would wash up later. “If there’s anything left to wash,” she thought. For several minutes afterwards she could hear Nettle crashing about down-stairs and 77

then all was quiet. After a while the silence was broken once again, but this time by the more familiar sounds of Saturday morning television. Goodrun spread the newspaper out on her bed and read the article once more. Would it be useful for her homework? Did she know enough to write about it? No. She must do some more thinking. She thought until her brain hurt but by 11.30pm all she managed to write was the date. Goodrun had given up by the time Daisy called at 12 o’clock. Even the thought of spending an afternoon with Drippy Drew was better than sweating over boring homework and Goodrun was looking forward to the Fun Day. The grey sky had lightened to a pale blue and the sun was trying to come out. Aunt Nettle’s good temper had also been restored and when the girls left she was happily watching a lunch-time television programme about knitting. Philip and his friend were waiting at the gate of Ivy Cottage. “The other one’s for you,” whispered Daisy. Goodrun looked at the other one. Could be worse. Neither tall nor short, not anything really. But he had a nice face and his name was Sam. “Hi,” said Sam. 79

“Hi,” said Goodrun. The garden of the Grange, a rambling old manor house, was crammed with stalls and sideshows and every one of them was surrounded by jostling, happy people. Goodrun quickly scanned the crowds for any sign of Evilyn. She couldn’t see her but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there. “I hope she doesn’t come,” she muttered. “Do what?” shouted Daisy, trying to make herself heard over the music which trumpeted at full-blast through huge loudspeakers set on poles. “Nothing!” bellowed Goodrun. It was very exciting. Children shrieked with delight as they dipped and swooped on the various rides. Stallholders tried to capture their attention by shouting out their special offers and, wafting over everything, the tempting smells of fried onions and sizzling burgers. “And hot dogs,” said Daisy. “And Gypsy Dogrose. Look! There’s her tent.” The star-spangled tent glittered even in the shade of the trees. “Have you ever had your fortune told?” asked Sam. “Me? No,” said Goodrun. “Do you want to? It might be a laugh.” “I don’t think so,” said Goodrun. She wasn’t really interested in the fortune teller. 80

“Oh, do, do,” twittered Daisy. “Is she any good?” asked Philip. “ I think so,” said Daisy. “I saw her last week and she knew about you.” Goodrun couldn’t help noticing how stupidly pleased Drippy Drew looked at this piece of non-news. Sam was reading the notice board. “Only 50 pence for palm-reading. Let’s have a go. I will if you will.” Suddenly, Goodrun had that horrid nervous feeling again. The sort of feeling she sometimes had when she visited the dentist and always before Maths class. “You go first,” she said. “No. I asked first,” said Sam. “Oh, make up your mind.” Drippy Drew was losing patience. “I want to see the Tugof War. If you’re scared of a silly old gypsy . . .” “I am not scared,” said Goodrun. “Well, why don’t you go in?” said Philip. “Go on, I dare you!” Inside the tent Fustia uncovered the crystal ball. To her delight she saw four young people outside. Two boys and two girls. One of the girls she recognized as Daisy Blazer and the other . . . the other had red hair and green eyes. Fustia did a little dance of joy. It had to be a little dance because the tent was so small but 81

she enjoyed it immensely. Unable to wait, now that Goodrun was so close, Fustia pulled back the flap of the tent. “Next person free,” she rasped. “Special off. Hurry up! Can’t wait all day.” She dropped the flap and sat down, her leather-covered fingers drumming on the table. But nobody came. She waited and waited, twitching with impatience. “Scabs and maggots,” she cried. “Why doesn’t she come in?” Then the flap opened, casting a triangle of light on the floor. Fustia could hardly control her excitement. “This way,” she whined, in her softest, kindest voice. “This way, my dear.”

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ith her heart beating itself silly and the back of her legs feeling as if they’d been sprayed with frozen goose-pimples, Goodrun crept into the tent. But the minute she got inside she knew she had made a big mistake. She had lived with witches long enough to know when she was in the presence of a real one. There was an unmistakable zing in the air and a feeling of dread in her bones. The same feeling that had been hovering around her all week. “At la-ast.” The voice rasped out of the darkness. “I’ve got you at la-ast.” “Who’s there?” Goodrun was surprised to find how weak her voice sounded. “Who is it?” She stared into the fuzzy gloom. A 83

shape appeared before her. A shape covered in scarves. “Gypsy Dogrose?” asked Goodrun, tremulously. “No. I’m not Gypsy Dogrose, but you should know who I am. Why don’t you sit down, dearie, duckie.” The voice sounded horribly familiar but it was still too dark to see the face. Goodrun sat, but she never took her eyes off the shrouded figure. Who was it? As she pulled her chair closer to the table Goodrun kicked something on the floor. “Ouch! Be careful, can’t you?” The figure jumped up and the scarves slipped from her head. “Dratthese bunions,” she said, rubbing her sizzling boots. Bunions! There was only one person in the world with bunions on her boots. “Madame Necromancy!” “Yes, yes. Don’t make out you didn’t know, you miserable little worm. I’ve been looking for you ever since you nearly drowned me and my Academy. But now,” she squeezed her hands together, “now, I’ve found you.” “But the flood was an accident,” said Goodrun, her voice quavering with fright. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was a mistake.” “Oh, yes? That’s what they all say. That’s what your sister said.” “My sister? What’s Evilyn got to do with it?” 84

“She told me where to find you.” “She what?” Goodrun gasped. Her own sister. How could she? There was no doubt that Evilyn was every bit as bad as she said she was, and more. “So, now I’ve got you,” wheezed Fustia, breathless with anticipation, “I can do what I like with you.” The old witch looked fearsomely threatening. “Oh, no, you can’t,” said Goodrun, hoping she sounded braver than she felt. “Why not?” “Because,” Goodrun swallowed hard, “because I’ve got friends outside, waiting for me.” “Then they’ll have a very long wait,” cackled Fustia. “Ha-ha-ha! I can’t make up my mind whether to zap you to the North or South Pole. I can tell you both are equally cold, and equally lonely. At least they were until that dratted hole ap-peared.” “What hole?” “None of your business! But you ought to know, because it was your fault.” “My fault? How can it be? I’ve never been anywhere near the South Pole.” “That doesn’t matter because / have. After what you did to me, I had to go to the Antarctic to calm down, and cool down. I 85

have a very hot temper, as you know, and I was so angry my temper burned a hole in the ozone layer. Then some silly young witchlings and the lower-order witches started using it as a short cut to earth. Trouble-making nincompoops. And in no time at all there were witches everywhere.” Goodrun was amazed. Aunt Nettle was right. The hole in the ozone layer, the changing weather, it was witches’ work. “So it will have to be North Pole, after all,” said Fustia. “My friends Honore and Boring Alice run a hotel there, and they need somebody to do their dirty work.” Her spiteful voice sent a chill down Goodrun’s spine. “It won’t be pleasant. Oh, no. Time drags when you’re suffering and I should know.” She smacked her boots. “Curse these wretched bunions.” Goodrun was trying to think how she could escape when she noticed thin wisps of smoke curling round the top of Fustia’s boots and seeping through the lace-holes. The smoke twisted and spiralled around the chair legs as Fustia rubbed her scorching toes. Although Goodrun knew there was no real danger from bunion-burn, the smoke gave her an idea. There’s no smoke without fire. Water puts out fires. Witches hate water. Aunt Nettle had put a bottle of lemonade in 86

with her lunch. She grabbed her saggy bag. “Oh bother!” It was only a small bottle. That wasn’t any good, but it would be if it was four times as big. Goodrun frantically searched her brain for the doubling spell. “Once and thrixt, times twice and twixt, dibble, dubble, doodle, dice.” She repeated it twice and almost instantly the little bottle was transformed into jumbo size. Keeping one eye on Fustia, who was still nursing her bunions, Goodrun unscrewed the cap and, putting her thumb over the top, she gave the bottle a quick shake. The bubbles inside began to build up, threatening to explode any minute. “What are you doing?” snapped Fustia. Goodrun moved her thumb just a little and the lemonade surged out of the bottle. The powerful, fizzing jet stream caught the old witch full in the face. “You beast!” she screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!” Goodrun directed the jet at Fustia’s boots. She was enjoying this. “You’re on fire,” she said. “Just trying to help.” “Help? You’re no help,” cried a dripping Fustia. “I can’t stand being wet. I shall die damp.” She crouched on the floor, shivering and moaning, looking only half her normal size. “I’m wet,” she whimpered. “I want to 88

go home. I want my magazine. I want my mummy.” She began to rock to and fro and suck her thumb. Goodrun realized with glee that the tables were turned. She was in control now. A wet witch was completely powerless. “I’ll let you go,” she said, “if you promise, witches honour, not to bother me any more.” “I promise,” said Fustia, far too quickly. “And you can stop those other witches coming down and messing up our weather.” “Can’t!” said Fustia, grumpily. “Witches do what they like. I can’t stop them.” “Oh, yes you can.” “How?” “You can patch that hole you made in the ozone layer.” There was a slight pause; then Fustia said, “Alright. I’ll do it tomorrow.” “I want it done now,” said Goodrun. “I don’t trust you.” “But I can’t fly. I’m too wet.” “Well, I’m not!” Goodrun grabbed the soggy, sagging witch by the arm. She had never double-zapped before and wasn’t sure if her half-witchy powers would be strong enough. She closed her eyes and concentrated really hard. “Two to the South Pole,” she whispered, hoping and hoping that this time she would get it right. 89

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he South Pole looked like a black sack dumping ground. A rubbish tip. A disaster area. The ice was covered with hundreds of witches flapping about on their way to different parts of the world. The penguins, annoyed by this unfriendly invasion of their territory, ran among the witches’ legs trying to trip them up or peck their knees. But even as some witches fell over or flew off, more tumbled in through the hole. Goodrun had no idea things were this bad. She dragged the cringing Fustia to her feet. “Well? Now we’re here, do some-thing.” She shook the lemonade bottle threateningly. 90

Fustia clapped her hands. “All right. Everybody out!” she cried, as if she were an attendant at a swimming pool. “Ses-sion’s over. Time’s up.” The witches ignored her. “I thought you were all-powerful,” said Goodrun. “I thought the lower-order witches were frightened of you. They don’t look very frightened to me. Perhaps you’re not as powerful as you think you are.” Fustia swelled with indignation. “How dare you,” she said. “I’ll show you just how powerful I am!” She shook her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height. She was a tall witch, much larger than average, and Goodrun felt dwarfed beside her and a little frightened. Fustia raised her arms, her hands making circular gathering motions in the air. Purple clouds drifted in from nowhere and hovered protectively around her. Cloaked in her own sinister atmosphere she then began to conjure up a cold, bone-brittle wind and with it came a feeling of dread and despair. If Goodrun had not concentrated her mind on things like sunny beaches, blue skies and chocolate cake, she too would have been swept up in the feeling of deepest doom that surrounded them. The witches, suddenly aware they were in the presence of real power, stopped flapping 91

and stood around on the crisp snow, silent and still, every gimlet eye fixed on the tall witch. Fustia pointed at the hole above them. “Go,” she commanded. “Go now, from whence you came. Stay at your peril.” Then, in a silly, sing-song voice, she added, “Last one home’s a baby.” The witches howled and made a long black charge for the hole. The sound of several hundred screeching witches fighting for a space only big enough for one to get through had to be heard to be believed. Such was their anxiety not to be last that two old hags, neither of whom would give way to the other, got stuck in the hole. The South Pole was silent and deserted once again. The only movement was that of the skinny, stockinged legs of the two witches dangling down from the sky, and the only sound that of the wind, blowing unhindered across the vast, frozen continent. Goodrun shivered. Although she was only wearing a thin summer T-shirt, it was the first time she had actually felt cold. “How long will they stay there?” She nodded towards the witches’ wriggling legs. “That depends if anybody feeds them,” said Fustia. “If they don’t eat they’ll get thinner and will eventually fall down. On the other hand if some silly witch supplies them 93

with chocolate buns and jam doughnuts, (and I know one who might) then they’ll get fat and will probably be there forever.” “But what if-f-f the others-s-s-s come back?” asked Goodrun, her teeth beginning to chatter. “They won’t,” said Fustia, proudly. “Not while I’m here.” “Fffff . . . good.” said Goodrun. “Fffff . . . then this is where you’d better s-stay. And if you don’t . . .” She shook the lemonade bottle. It fizzed menacingly. “I always knew you were trouble,” growled Fustia. “Get out of my life, you pest. Go away!” Goodrun was more than happy to oblige. She would freeze over if she didn’t. “I’m leaving the bottle here,” she said, setting it down on the snow. “It knows what to do.” The jumbo bottle suddenly sprouted arms and legs and ran over to Madame Necromancy where it attached itself to her boot. The old witch kicked out but the bottle refused to go away. “See!” said Goodrun. “I learned something at your Academy,” “Pest! Pest!” Fustia’s scream skated across the snow, sharp like the ice itself, But Goodrun had gone. She was already back at Hook, sitting at the table inside 94

Gypsy Dogrose’s darkened tent, surprised and pleased at her amazing success. But before she had time to congratu-late herself the tent flap opened and somebody came in. They sat down in front of her. Fustia’s discarded scarves lay on the floor by her chair. Goodrun quickly picked one up and draped it over her head. “Bet you can’t tell my fortune,” said a sneering voice that Goodrun recognized instantly. “Fifty pence,” she said, disguising her voice as well as she could. “Cross me palm with silver, dearie, and I’ll tell you things that will amaze you.” The money was handed over and Goodrun took the cloth off the crystal ball. “I see an old house. An ugly old house, with turrets and towers. It is empty now, and it is called . . .” she paused, adding in a chilling whisper, “ . . . Badmanners Mansion.” The occupant of the other chair gasped and then said rudely, “Oh yeah? What’s that got to do with me?” “And I see another house,” Goodrun continued. “A publishing house. You have a job with a magazine called The Hag Mag.” “Hey! How do you know that? Who are you?” “You also have a sister.” Goodrun did not bother to disguise her voice anymore. “A 95

sister you ratted on, Evilyn Badmanners!” She stood up and flung back the scarf. “Goodrun!” Evilyn’s face paled. “I didn’t rat on you. Would I do that? Well, I would, yes, but I didn’t. Not really. I was going to tell you about Madame Necromancy. That’s why I came. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. “I don’t believe you,” said Goodrun. “Ah, well,” said Evilyn, smugly. “That’s up to you. But I’d like to know who told you about The Hag Mag?” “Let’s say, whoever it was, is enjoying a very long holiday at the South Pole and her initials are F.N.” “Fustia Necromancy? What’s she doing there?” “You could say she’s working for me,” said Goodrun, who was beginning to enjoy the situation. “Well, not just me, everybody. She certainly won’t have time to edit her magazine. So, it looks like you might have lost your new job. Sorry. Just one of those things.” Evilyn was smiling. “That’s just where you’re wrong, see. I might be a good reporter but I’d much rather be the Editor. Nice of you to get rid of the old one for me. He-he-he-he-hee. See you.” And before Goodrun could say another word, Evilyn had disappeared. 96

“Oh bother, blow and blimp!” said Goodrun, as she heard her sister’s “can’tcatch-me” cackle fading into the distance. She wondered how long she had been away. Were the others still waiting for her? She stepped outside the tent and shaded her eyes. The sunlight was blinding and the noise was deafening. A barrel-organ was playing, the hot-dog seller was shouting, people on the rides were yelling and whoop and above it all the P.A. system was going full blast. “Just in time,” said Philip. “The Tug-ofWar’s about to start. Come on everybody. Follow me.” “Well?” asked Daisy, as they edged through the crowds to where the Tug-of-War contestants were lining up. “You weren’t long. Only two or three minutes. What did she say?” “She mostly talked about the weather,” said Goodrun. “Predictions, forecasts. Said it would improve generally. World-wide.” “What a swizz,” said Daisy. “Didn’t she say anything personal? Didn’t she say anything about you and Sam?” “No.” “Well!” Daisy was indignant. “You ought to ask for your money back.” The two teams began straining on the thick rope and the onlookers noisily urged 97

them on as they tugged and pulled, each team trying to pull the other over the line. Lost in the excitement of the contest Daisy forgot about Gypsy Dogrose and Goodrun was more than happy to forget about Madame Necromancy. At the end of the day, after trying everything – the rifle range, the coconut shy and the china-smashing stall (Goodrun couldn’t help thinking Aunt Nettle would have enjoyed that one) – the four of them went home tired but happy, promising to meet again sometime. And, for Goodrun, the weekend would have been almost perfect if it had not been for that unfinished homework.

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t was Monday again and a week had gone by since the Fun Day. A week since the extra homework had to be handed in, and a week in which Henry Binks had read all the essays, stories and articles. “Well done, 1 A,” he said. “And I have to say I was mildly surprised. The standard was good and better than I had expected, given such short notice. Several of you have some very original ideas of improving our environment. In fact, all this work,” he said, patting the homework papers stacked on his desk, “was well above average, except for one.” Goodrun bent her head. She guessed what was coming. 99

“Except Goodrun Smith’s. Come out to the front, Smith.” Goodrun made her way to Mr Binks’ desk. She could sense the suppressed laughter and felt everybody must be thinking what an absolute idiot she was. And perhaps she was. “This,” said Henry Binks, waving Goodrun’s homework in the air, “was not just better than average, it was outstanding. Brilliant. And I don’t say that very often. It showed great imagination.” Goodrun was stunned. Was he really talking about her? Had he got her work mixed up with somebody else’s? “I’d like you to read your story aloud, Goodrun,” he said. “You’ve obviously put a lot of effort into it. Well done. Keep up the good work.” Then to the class, “Pay attention everybody. Birchett! Would you mind looking this way? No, you haven’t discovered a new birthmark. It’s dirt. Now turn round and listen. It’s possible you might learn something.” He sat back in his chair and signalled Goodrun to begin. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat for the third or fourth time in as many seconds. She saw Martin Birchett staring at her in amazement and Daisy smiling from the back of the class, Again that nervous, tingling feeling suddenly washed over her, 100

making her feel shivery. But this time she knew it was nothing threatening. It was happiness and excitement. “Well,” she said again, “I couldn’t think of a title, but it starts like this. Madame Fustia Necromancy had once been in charge of an Academy for the training of young witches . . .”

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