Sophie's Spell, Page 2

  The cupboards were the first place to check. She yanked them open one by one—plates…dishes…bowls…saucepans. Ah! Saucepans! She emptied them out of the cupboard one by one—too big…too small…too new…too old. She stopped, took another look at that last one. Too old? It was old, yes, but it wasn’t too old. It was scratched and a bit battered, and the handle was a little loose, but it could still hold things, things like ingredients for spells. She’d found it at the back of the cupboard and that made her think it was there because her mum no longer used it. In fact, it looked just about ready to be thrown out. Well, she could find a use for it, even if her mum couldn’t. She decided there and then that this would be her cauldron, and she took it up to her bedroom and left it there while she went in search for what she needed next.

  A book of spells, she knew that every witch has a book of spells. Sophie knew there was no way she was going to find a real, genuine witch’s book of spells. I mean, it’s not as if you could walk into the local library and ask the librarian for one. But then, she reasoned, spells were more about the rhymes than the ingredients. And since she made up her own rhymes and therefore her own spells, all she really needed was some sort of cookery book, to make her spells taste nice. There was bound to be one somewhere. She went to the bookcase to find out.

  She ran a finger along the shelf where her mum kept her cookery books. There were lots to choose from, lots that her mum never used. She never really seemed to cook at all, just got in from work, grabbed something from the freezer and bunged it in the microwave. So Sophie could take any of these, really. It wouldn’t be missed.

  She ran her finger along the shelf again until it settled on one book in particular. It was by the famous TV cook Delia Poshnosh, and it was called Quick Gourmet Dinner Parties For Busy Mums. She pulled it out. It looked as though it had never been used. She opened it. The contents page looked interesting. There were all sorts of dishes listed on it, dishes like Cold Sausage Soup with Pineapple Dumplings…Roast Watermelons stuffed with Mustard Pickle and Beetroot…and Barbecued Chicken Heads garnished with Apricot Mousse, Mashed Swede and Horseradish Sauce. And chips. And looking at this long list of dishes that seemed to be making her feel strangely queasy inside, Sophie thought it was perhaps just as well that her mum had never used it. But she could tell even by looking at it that it would give her some idea of what to use in her spells, so she tucked it under her arm and took it back to her bedroom.

  Back in her room, Sophie shut the light off and threw open her curtains. The full moon blazed in through her window, bathing her cauldron and book of spells in an eerie silvery glow. Now she really did feel like a witch, a real, genuine witch. She was ready to make her first spell. All she needed was someone to try it on. That someone came along the very next day.

  FOUR

  That someone was her teacher.

  Now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that there are two kinds of teachers. The first is the nice kind. Nice teachers feel warm and comfortable to be with. Nice teachers don’t worry if you don’t give your homework in on time. In fact, nice teachers don’t even set you homework. Nice teachers smile at you all the time, give you chocolates and ice cream (even when you’re naughty), and only expect you to come to school on Sundays and any other time when it’s closed. That’s the nice kind of teacher.

  The other kind is the horrible kind. Horrible teachers are grouchy and wear smelly socks. Horrible teachers set you homework and actually expect you to do it. They expect you to come to school every day and every night, and give up your holidays to come in and learn extra sums. And horrible teachers read you stories. If your teacher is reading you this story now, you can be pretty certain that he or she is one of the horrible kind. So make sure you do your homework. And don’t get too close to the smelly socks.

  You can probably guess from all this that Sophie’s teacher was very much one of the horrible kind. In fact, you could even say she was one of the really horrible kind. Your teacher reads you stories? Sophie’s teacher reads stories, too, but she leaves the last chapter out, so no one ever knows how the story ends. Your teacher sets you homework? Sophie’s teacher sets homework, too, but she expects it to be handed in half an hour before she even sets it. Sophie’s teacher only smiles to show off her yellow teeth, she only gives out chocolate covered slugs and beetle flavoured ice cream, and she never, ever closes the school, not even for Christmas. That’s Sophie’s teacher.

  When Sophie turned up for school that day, she knew she was in for a hard time. In fact, she knew the whole class was in for a hard time. Her teacher, her really horrible teacher, was in a bad mood. She could tell this because instead of saying “Good morning, you hopeless wretches!” as she swept into the room (as she usually did), her teacher just stomped in, slammed her bag onto her desk and stood there glaring at them as if she really didn’t like what she was seeing.

  ‘I’m not going to wish you a good morning,’ she growled, ‘because it isn’t. I’m in a particularly bad mood today. In case you’re wondering why, and you’re probably not, my breakfast went completely wrong. I picked up the wrong bottle and poured ketchup on my cornflakes instead of milk. I picked up the wrong shaker and put salt in my tea instead of sugar. And if all that wasn’t enough, the sun’s shining, and you know how I hate the sun shining. Now sit down, you miserable maggots, and take out your books of extra-hard sums.’

  And that’s how the morning went. They did extra-hard sums, they recited the 27½ times table (twice), and they each had to write a long composition on what they didn’t do on their holidays. They were really glad when lunchtime came.

  As they sat down and opened their lunchboxes, they all agreed on one thing about their teacher.

  ‘She’s horrid,’ said Emma.

  ‘She’s ghastly,’ said George.

  ‘She’s horrid and ghastly and everything nasty it’s possible to be,’ said Alex.

  Sophie said nothing. She had the distinctly witchy feeling that if the morning had been bad, the afternoon was going to be even worse. And she was right.

  Her teacher stomped back into the classroom like before, stood there in front of them like before and glared at them like before.

  ‘If you thought I was in a particularly bad mood this morning,’ she said, ‘I’m in an even worse one now. In case you’re wondering why, and you’re probably not, my lunch went completely wrong. I put custard on my chicken instead of gravy. I put gravy on my trifle instead of custard. And if all that wasn’t enough, the sun is still shining. Now sit down, you worthless worms, and take out your extra-hard reading books.’

  And that’s how most of the afternoon went. But only most of the afternoon. While they sat there doing their extra-hard reading, Sophie’s teacher marked their compositions. And as she marked them, she would shout things. Horrible things. Horrible things about what she was reading.

  ‘Emily!’ she would yell. ‘Your handwriting is too neat! Do it again!’

  And she would screw the composition up into a little ball of paper and throw it at whoever she was shouting at. It went on like that—

  ‘Ian! Your question marks are too straight! Do it again!’

  ‘Steven! Your commas are too curved! Do it again!’

  ‘Kayleigh! Your full stops are too stoppy! Do it again!’

  —until she came to the very last composition in the pile. It was Sophie’s. Sophie sat at her desk and waited while her teacher read. She knew she had written a good one because she always writes good compositions. Her handwriting is never too neat. Her full stops and commas and question marks are always the right size and shape. And she is always particularly proud of her spelling. But when her teacher finished reading, she stopped, looked up at her and shouted—

  ‘Sophie! Your spelling is atrocious! Do it again!’

  —and like before, she screwed her composition up into a little ball of paper and threw it at her.

  Sophie picked it up, unfurled it and smoothed it into a flat sheet on her desk. She re
ad through it again. Every word. One by one. And not a single one was spelt wrongly. She looked up. Her teacher looked in a very bad mood. Sophie swallowed hard and put her hand up. Her teacher stopped glaring at the class to look at her.

  ‘What do you want, you snivelling little wretch?’ she shouted.

  ‘It’s my composition, Miss,’ she said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Um…I’ve checked it and the spelling isn’t wrong. It isn’t wrong at all.’

  Her teacher glared at her. Hard!

  ‘Are you arguing with me, girl?’ she yelled.

  ‘Well,’ said Sophie, ‘…um…yes!’

  It was, of course, quite the wrong thing to say. Her teacher looked suddenly very angry, looked even about ready to explode.

  ‘If you think I’m in a worse mood now than I was before,’ she roared, ‘you can be sure I’m going to be in an even worse mood later. In case you’re wondering why, and you’re probably not, my tea is bound to go completely wrong, too! I’ll probably put cream on my bacon and mustard in my coffee! I’ll probably put jam on my cheese and pickle on my cake! And if all that isn’t enough, when it’s time to go to bed, I’ll probably switch the cat off and put the television out! So right now, I don’t need you sitting there and arguing with me!’

  ‘But I’ve checked my composition and—’

  ‘SILENCE!’ roared her teacher. ‘For your cheek, you can do it again TWICE!’

  Sophie said nothing. She just sat back in her chair and looked down at her crumpled composition. So her spelling was atrocious, was it? So she had to make a better job of it, did she? Fine, she thought, I will. I’ll show you just how good my spelling can be.

  FIVE

  When she got home, that evening, she shut herself in her witch’s lair, drew her curtains to make it nice and gloomy, and opened her book of spells. Making her teacher disappear wasn’t good enough, she’d already decided, she wanted something to happen that would make the whole class laugh at her, that would pay her back for all the times she’d been so horrible to them all. So she needed a good spell, a really good spell.

  As she flicked through the pages, she could tell that this Delia Poshnosh had some pretty strange ideas about cooking. Hard-boiled Eggs with Bacon and Banana Stuffing she could maybe understand but Treacle and Pease Pudding Truffles with Whipped Cream and Onion Gravy? No way! But it didn’t seem to matter anyway: as she looked down the list of ingredients for each dish, she was pretty certain that her mum wouldn’t have even half of them in the kitchen. And it then seemed equally certain that her book of spells wasn’t going to be much help just then. She closed it and put it back in its place on the shelf.

  She would just have to make up her own dish, that’s all there was to it. It was no big deal, she’d done it once already. And anyway, she then thought, spells must depend more on rhymes than ingredients so she could pretty much use whatever she could find. Her mind was made up. She leapt up off her bed and clattered downstairs, eager to get started.

  In the kitchen, she rummaged through the fridge for ingredients. Her mum had just been to the supermarket so there were lots to choose from. There was cheese, there was ham. There was milk and bacon and yoghurt and eggs. There was fresh fish (that would be good for her), fresh vegetables (even better for her) and fresh cream cakes (not so good for her but rather yummy). She gathered them all up and stacked them neatly on the tray.

  Next, she looked in the larder. The larder was always full of tins. She didn’t bother checking which tin was what, she just grabbed a few and stacked them, too, on her tray. Then she checked in the bread-bin for mouldy bread. There wasn’t any but there were crumpets. These she took, too. She stopped then and looked down at the ingredients for her latest spell. Apart from a few teabags and a tin-opener, it was all there. She picked up the tray and carted it back to her witch’s lair.

  Her cauldron was all ready and waiting. First in went the fish, followed swiftly by a few carrots and some Brussels sprouts. Next went the cream cakes, but not all of them. Two didn’t make it quite as far as the cauldron. After all, even witches have to eat.

  The mixture looked a little dry, so she opened a tin of peaches in syrup and tipped that in. Then she opened a tin of sardines in brine and tipped that in. Next, she opened a tin of minced beef in gravy and tipped that in. Then she picked up her spoon and began to stir. And as she began to stir, she added the most important ingredient of all. She started to make up her rhyme.

  Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble.

  Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

  Something for my teacher, this,

  a tasty little treat for Miss.

  What is it, I hear you ask?

  Something good designed to mask

  a secret potion hid behind.

  She’ll take a bite and then she’ll find

  how really truly I can spell

  and do other things as well,

  like read and write and do hard sums

  (yes, okay, with help from mum).

  I want to make her see all this,

  that horrid, ugly, nasty Miss.

  She stopped stirring to peer down at the mixture. It didn’t look very good, it didn’t even look, well, interesting. But that was easily put right. She reached for more ingredients.

  First, she put in the milk. Next, she put in the yoghurt. Then she put in eggs, flour, a tin of ravioli, two tins of peas and the crumpets. And half a pot of peanut butter she’d found lurking at the back of the larder. It looked a little slimy and was a very strange colour and it was well past its Use By date but in it went, anyway. She picked up her spoon again, and resumed her stirring and witchy rhyme.

  A pinch of this, a dash of that,

  a little lean, a little fat,

  two whole tins of half-baked beans

  and salty, slimy, wet sardines

  and cheese and eggs and milk and ham

  and don’t forget the strawberry jam.

  Mix it up and make it hot.

  (The oven! Oh, I still forgot!)

  I’ll take it in to show to Miss

  and say she really should try this.

  I’ll watch her eat and then I’ll wish

  for something from this witchy dish

  to make her vanish, grow or shrink

  (the last is what I’d like, I think).

  This mixture’s turned to sludgy slop.

  I think perhaps I’d better stop.

  Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble.

  Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

  It’ll work, I know this well.

  ’Cos I’m a witch, and I can spell.

  She stopped stirring. The mixture looked right, looked better than just plain interesting. Now all she had to do was cook it. She knew that witches lit fires under their cauldrons to cook their potions but she also knew it would not be safe to light a fire in her bedroom. But what could she do? She took a moment to think. There was really only one way out of this. She would have to take her potion down to the kitchen, tip it into a plastic container and heat it in the microwave. And this she did. She was a very modern witch.

  As she stood there listening to the microwave humming and waiting for the pinger to go off, she wondered again what effect this spell would have on her teacher. Maybe Miss really would turn into a giant toadstool with green spots. Maybe her face would sprout pimples, her nose would sprout warts and her head would turn into a huge turnip and be eaten by giant caterpillars. Or maybe her ears would grow really huge and she would flap them and fly out the window, never to be seen again. Now that would be really good.

  The pinger pinged, the microwave stopped humming, and she pulled the door open to peer inside at her creation. It looked done. She reached for the oven-gloves and carefully lifted it out. As she looked at it cooling on the table, she had the distinctly witchy feeling that this spell was going to go even better than the last one.

  And she was right. It did.

  SIX

  Sophie sat at her d
esk and waited for her teacher to arrive. In her school bag, she had her homework, her lunchbox and a little extra something for Miss.

  This little extra something had turned out really rather well. She’d let it cool then turned it out on a plate and found it looked remarkably like a cake. It was soft to the touch and a little crumbly, and smelt remarkably cakey. And after she’d carefully cut the top half from the bottom half, spread raspberry jam on both pieces and put them back together again, it looked even more remarkably like a cake. And although Sophie knew very little about her teacher, one thing she did know was that she was rather fond of cake, which was very useful just then…

  The door slammed open and the class fell silent. Miss stomped in, slammed her brief-case onto her desk then stood there and glared at them like she really, really didn’t like what she was seeing.

  ‘If you thought I was in a bad mood yesterday,’ she growled, ‘I’m in a real stinker of one today. In case you’re wondering why, and you’re probably not, my breakfast didn’t even get as far as being completely wrong. The milk was off so I couldn’t have cornflakes. The bread was mouldy so I couldn’t have toast. And if all that wasn’t enough, the weather forecast said it would be raining today and it isn’t! And you know how I like the rain! Now sit down, you revolting insects, and take out your books of extra-extra-hard sums!’

  Sophie got her book out. It did not take a witchy feeling to know that today was going to be even worse than yesterday. She did not feel much like doing extra-extra-hard sums all morning. Nor did she feel like reciting the 37¾ times table (probably twice). And nor did she feel like writing a composition on what she might have done on her holiday if she’d thought about it in time, only then for it to be crumpled up and thrown at her with a shout to do it again because the paper wasn’t white enough. She needed to do something and it was just perfect that Miss was feeling so hungry this morning. She raised a hand. Miss looked up and fixed her with a steely glare.