Glubbslyme (7 page)

‘I’ve got to help you,’ said Rebecca.

She knew she wasn’t being much help. She tried again. It took her minutes before she dared pick up another. It felt worse. Slime seeped out of its back end. Horrible little horns waved at its front. Rebecca retched, certain she was about to be sick, but she managed to hang on this time and dropped the slug into her bucket. One slug in the bucket. Only another 1,000,000 or more to go.

She heard a contemptuous croak. Glubbslyme was squatting beside her. He shook his head at her and then opened his mouth. Seven slugs at one gulp. And then again. And again. Rebecca shuddered but smiled at him gratefully. But even a large toad like Glubbslyme had a strictly limited slug-consumption rate. They needed lots of toads.

‘A plague of toads,’ Rebecca whispered excitedly. ‘Oh Glubbslyme, I’ve solved the problem.’

Glubbslyme wouldn’t speak so close to the Bakers but he didn’t look as if he thought much of her idea. Rebecca went over it in her head. The plague of toads would eat the plague of slugs. But then what would happen about the toads? Mr and Mrs Baker would be rid of their slugs and toads didn’t really harm a garden, but they wouldn’t
look
decorative and a chorus of toad croaks would get on anyone’s nerves.

Mr Baker had other ideas.

‘The garden centre should be open in ten minutes. We’ll have to buy up their entire stock of slug pellets. Come on,’ he said to Mrs Baker. ‘And you, Rebecca Brown, get back to your own garden and stop playing about with that silly little bucket. As if that will do any good.’

‘He’s right,’ said Rebecca miserably, when the Bakers had gone to get the slug pellets. ‘I’m really not being much help.’

There were a mere six slugs in her bucket now and she wasn’t getting any faster.

‘That rude oaf does not need pellets to deal with his plague,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘He fancies himself a gardener yet does not know the simple slug remedy! Fetch me a hogshead of porter, Rebecca.’

‘We haven’t got any hogs,’ said Rebecca. ‘There’s some pork chops in our fridge, would they do?’

‘
Ale,
child. Beer.’

‘Oh, We’ve got that. Dad’s just had a go at making his own but it’s gone wrong.’

The smelly liquid in the special bin in the cupboard under the stairs had very definitely gone wrong but Glubbslyme thought it might still do. He directed Rebecca to fill her pail and Mr Baker’s bucket and Mrs Baker’s basin with the brew. As soon as the slugs smelt it they went wild. They squirmed and wriggled across the grass and dived into the foul frothy liquid. They splashed and spurted and slurped. And then they sank.

‘It works!’ said Rebecca.

‘Of course it works,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘Let us leave the molluscs at their maudlin ablutions. It is high time we breakfasted. My Rebecca always provided a large bowl of milk pottage. I hope you will do likewise.’

‘I’ve got milk. But what’s pottage?’

‘Oats, child.’

‘Oh them. Well, we’ve got an old packet of muesli – that’s oats. I can make muesli. Come on then.’

They left the bowls and buckets and the blighted Baker garden. Rebecca’s tummy tightened as she took a last look at the damaged flowers – but there were still
some
slug-free. She resolved she would be as helpful and polite as possible to both Bakers in future to try to make amends.

‘Make haste with breakfast, child,’ said Glubbslyme.’ I am famished.’

‘After all those slugs?’ said Rebecca.

She heated up a pan of milk and poured it over a big bowl of muesli. She stirred it round carefully and spooned a little golden syrup on top to liven it up a bit. Glubbslyme eagerly hopped across the breakfast table. Rebecca expected him to sink his head in the bowl and munch like a dog or a cat, but Glubbslyme picked up a teaspoon and wielded it expertly, not spilling a drop. He edged slowly round the bowl, saving the golden syrup middle until the end. Rebecca and Dad weren’t very keen on muesli, deciding it wasn’t a patch on cornflakes, but Glubbslyme was obviously eating with great enjoyment. He particularly savoured the golden syrup, smacking his lips and making little mmm sounds of pleasure.

Rebecca idly spooned up a mouthful straight from the syrup tin for herself.

‘I don’t want to do any more bad magic, Glubbsiyme,’ she said decidedly.

‘As you wish,’ said Glubbslyme huffily. ‘If you do not require my services pray return me to my pond.’

‘Of course I require them,’ said Rebecca, quickly giving him another spoonful of syrup to sweeten him up. ‘I just want to do some nice harmless magic, that’s all. Will you teach me?’

‘If I must,’ sighed Glubbslyme, licking his sticky lips. ‘Well? Which magical art do you wish to master?’

Rebecca wasn’t too sure. She didn’t have much experience of witchcraft. The only witch she’d ever come across was Samantha in the television programme ‘Bewitched.’ She tried to think what Samantha could do.

‘Will you teach me how to wiggle my nose and disappear?’ asked Rebecca.

Glubbslyme stared at her.

‘Why do you wish to wiggle your nose and disappear?’ he enquired.

Rebecca thought about it. She couldn’t see much advantage in it, certainly. She decided to try something else. She could get Glubbslyme to teach her how to make the sun come out – although the sun was already out and shining strongly of its own accord, so perhaps that wasn’t a very good idea either. So what else did good – or goodish – witches do?

‘I know!’ said Rebecca. ‘Teach me how to fly!’

Glubbslyme had forgotten his impeccable manners. His head was right inside the syrup tin. He edged it out again with difficulty, flicking out his long tongue to lick up all the syrup round his ears.

‘Glubbslyme!’ said Rebecca severely.

He looked a little embarrassed. She had to wet a J-cloth and give him a good mopping. It was tempting to play around with the washing up bowl but Rebecca had only to lift her head to see the stain on the ceiling from yesterday’s bathroom flood. Dad had stayed very cross for most of the evening. Rebecca towelled Glubbslyme dry and set him in the soap rack.

‘
Will
you teach me how to fly?’ she asked again.

Glubbslyme swung his legs and sighed.

‘I do not care for flying,’ he said. ‘I suffer from vertigo.’

‘What’s that?’ said Rebecca, wondering if it might be a dread seventeenth-century disease.

But it was only dizziness.

‘Only!’ said Glubbslyme, closing his eyes. ‘Once I fell from the broomstick when we did fly to attend a Great Sabbat and I hurtled downwards like a hawk. I was certain I would spatter the ground with my chill blood but my dear Rebecca swooped after me and rescued me just in time.’

‘I won’t let you fall, Glubbslyme, I promise. Oh please, I’d give anything to be able to fly. Please.
Please.’

Glubbslyme sighed irritably.

‘Very well. One
very
brief flying lesson. First you will need to concoct a flying ointment. My Rebecca used the strongest ointment possible because she ventured far and wide. A weaker lotion will be sufficient for your purposes. Now, as to ingredients. Of course Rebecca varied hers according to her needs. When we did fly over three counties on All Hallow’s Eve she did use a goose grease base and added eagle’s claw and albatross eye, bat’s blood and the gore from a dangling man. I do not suppose there is a gibbet nearby, child?’

‘What’s a gibbet?’

‘It is the post on which malefactors are hung.’

‘We don’t have them nowadays,’ said Rebecca gratefully.

Glubbslyme tutted. ‘Well, I daresay we can make do with eagle, albatross and bat.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible either,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t catch an eagle or an albatross and I’m scared of bats.’

‘You cannot fly without an aerial ointment,’ said Glubbslyme impatiently. He peered out of the kitchen window at the birds on the fence. ‘Suppose we keep things simple? Kindly catch six sparrows.’

‘I’m not extracting any eyes or beaks or claws,’ said Rebecca firmly. ‘And besides, I’d get reported to the R.S.P.C.A.’

She made do with two sparrow feathers, a dead bumble bee and the wing of one of Glubbslyme’s snack dragonflies. She made a thick white paste with washing powder (because it was called Ariel), chopped the feathers, bee and wing into tiny pieces, and added them to the mixture.

‘It looks rather disgusting,’ she said. ‘It was a very dead bee.’

‘Beggars cannot be choosers,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘Now bring me your broomstick and we will anoint ourselves with your inferior ointment.’

There was a further problem.

‘I haven’t got a broomstick,’ said Rebecca.

‘No broomstick,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘Might I enquire how you sweep your floors?’

Rebecca went to the cupboard and brought out the vacuum cleaner and the dustpan and brush. Glubbslyme did not understand the vacuum cleaner so she switched it on and showed him. He shrieked and leaped for the safety of the kitchen sink.

‘It’s all right, Glubbslyme, there’s nothing to be frightened of, I promise,’ said Rebecca, switching off. ‘I used to be scared of the vacuum too – but that was just when I was a little baby.’

‘I do not think you were ever little enough to be sucked up into that dreadful nozzle,’ said Glubbslyme, shuddering. ‘Kindly banish it back into its cupboard. And we will not require the child’s broom either. It might prove an adequate steed for such as myself but it will not bear your great weight.’

Rebecca was hurt. She was perhaps a bit plumper than Sarah and skinny old Mandy but she really wasn’t
fat
.

‘What
can
we use then?’ she asked, chucking the vacuum and brush back in the cupboard.

Glubbslyme was peering into its depths.

‘What is the long pied stick in the corner?’ he asked.

Rebecca realized he meant Dad’s red and yellow umbrella.

‘It will suffice,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘Apply the ointment. We are about to learn how to fly.’

Rebecca stuck her fingers into her unpleasant Ariel ointment and smeared a little on her arms and legs. She tried to avoid the little black bits in case they were the bee. The ointment felt uncomfortably itchy. She hoped she wouldn’t get a rash, she had very sensitive skin.

‘And me,’ commanded Glubbslyme.

She smeared the ointment over his odd warty back. Glubbslyme certainly did not appear to have sensitive skin but when she worked round his tummy he grinned foolishly and doubled up.

‘Desist!’ he gasped. ‘I am extremely ticklish.’

Rebecca became very giggly too, in nervous excitement. Glubbslyme told her to mount her steed. Rebecca straddled the umbrella, feeling rather a fool. She remembered long-ago games of hobby-horse, and wondered if she should give the umbrella an encouraging click of the teeth.

‘Aren’t you getting on too?’ she asked Glubbslyme.

‘Not unless it is absolutely necessary,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘Now concentrate, child.
Will
the pied stick up into the ether.’

Rebecca willed as hard as she could, her eyes squeezed shut with effort. Nothing at all happened. She stayed standing on the unmopped kitchen floor, straddling the umbrella.

‘Try harder! Concentrate,’ said Glubbslyme.

Rebecca tried. She concentrated until she thought her brain would burst but still nothing happened. Glubbslyme suggested another application of ointment, so she rubbed until her arms and legs were coated in white, and she dabbed more ointment on her face and even up under her T-shirt. She felt horribly stiff and sticky and it made no difference whatsoever.

‘You seem to have no rudimentary aptitude whatsoever,’ Glubbslyme grumbled. ‘I will have to join you after all.’

He hopped up gingerly behind her. The umbrella immediately twitched.

‘Oh mercy, my stomach,’ Glubbslyme moaned.

‘It moved, Glubbslyme! I felt it move,’ Rebecca cried excitedly.

‘I am in fear that my syrup pottage will move too,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘Are you certain you wish to fly?’