For Betty Woons, and all who tread on her

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 0 - A Village of Idiots

Chapter 1 - The Odd One Out

Chapter 2 - Lamp Flannigan

Chapter 3 - Meet the Candlewackses

Chapter 3.5 - All the That Exist About Coriander.

Chapter 4 - What Casper Saw

Chapter 5 - The Coriander Catastrophe

Chapter 6 - Race Day

Chapter 7 - Curseon the Kobb

Chapter 8 - Laying the Blame

Chapter 9 - The Bubbel Buggy

Chapter 10 - Another Village of Idiots

Chapter 10.1 - Murder in the Marquee

Chapter 11 - Telling Tiramisu

Chapter 12 - Bubbles?

Chapter 13 - Under the Bubbles

Chapter 14 - The Broken Buggy

Chapter 15 - Do Not Feed the Pigeons

Epilogue

Acknowledgments:

Read on for a sneak preview

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 0

A Village of Idiots

Most villages have an idiot. The village of Corne-on-the-Kobb has hundreds. I’m not just saying that; it really is full of them. I can’t explain why; it’s not as if there’s a humungous sign as you enter saying

ONLY IDIOTS WELCOME HERE!

It’s not as if there’s anything particularly idiotic in the village that attracts them there, apart from other idiots, of course. It’s just a fact: there is a higher concentration of idiots in Corne-on-the-Kobb than in other, less idiotically populated areas.

“But,” you might ask, “what exactly is an idiot?” Well, the answer is as simple as the idiots themselves. An idiot is someone who talks at the people on the telly and wonders why they don’t respond; someone who thinks the world’s gone all dark every time they close their eyes; someone who thinks Shepherd’s Pie is made of real shepherds. You get the idea. But shepherds and their pies aside, Corne-on-the-Kobb isn’t exactly famous for its geniuses. Keep this fact safely stuffed inside your brain at all times when reading this tale – it might make the whole thing just that little bit easier to understand.

Of course, there is an exception to every rule, and in this case the exception’s name is Casper Candlewacks. He isn’t an idiot, which is really lucky because, by some strange stroke of fate, he turns out to be the hero of the story, and no one wants an idiot as their main character, do they? Well, they might, but their story would end rather soon, with the hero glued to the ceiling or dangling off a cliff, and that wouldn’t make for a very good book.

Chapter 1

The Odd One Out

This was it. His moment.

“Casper.”

He stood, rapier blade in hand, face to face with the vile beast. Their eyes locked; the air around them fell still.

“Casper?”It bared its savage teeth, tail flickering menacingly, but Casper was ready. And then, it pounced.

“Casper Candlewacks,

Casper awoke with a snort and shot upright, losing his balance and sending books and pens flying across the classroom as he tipped too far backward and clattered, along with his chair, to the floor. The rest of Class 6 exploded with riotous laughter, but Mrs Snagg was less than amused.

“How dare you sleep in my classroom!” yelled Casper’s teacher, her spiky hair bristling threateningly.

“I’m awake, miss!”

“Well, stay awake, boy,” shouted Mrs Snagg, “or I’ll glue your eyelids open myself.”

“Sorry, miss.” Casper was too embarrassed to want to get up ever again. The class giggled and someone threw a rubber at him.

Mrs Snagg snarled. “Now pick yourself up and get back to your desk!” Casper did as he was told, blushing like an embarrassed plum and wishing he were still asleep. He plonked himself at his desk as his classmates sniggered and pointed, and slumped his head in his hands. He was awake again: back in the boring old world full of idiots, homework and falling off chairs.

Casper Candlewacks was an eleven-year-old boy with a wild imagination and a scruffy crop of wild blond hair in which many pencils and woodland creatures had been lost. He liked log flumes, goblins and helicopter gunships. He didn’t like girls, geography, or killer robots. His favourite food was spaghetti bolognese with chips, and his favourite animal was an ocelot. In other words, he was a pretty ordinary boy by our standards. But that was the problem. In a village where ordinary was thinking that eggs came from eggplants, Casper Candlewacks was far from ordinary. The people of Corne-on-the-Kobb didn’t like Casper because he was different. He could do joined-up handwriting, he knew his times tables, he even understood French. Those things scared the villagers, and so they either ignored Casper or blamed him for things.

Casper twizzled a finger in his hair and looked out of the window. It was the dawn of summer: the sun was out, the flowers were in bloom and the little lambs were frolicking in faraway grassy meadows like tiny frolicking flumps of wool in a massive salad. But Thursday afternoons meant double geography, and so summer would have to wait.

“Now, class,” squawked Mrs Snagg, rapping the board rubber loudly on her desk, making a bang so shocking that little Teresa Louncher let out a terrified squeak. Casper watched his teacher, Mrs Snagg, as she surveyed the classroom. She reminded Casper of a hedgehog in a flowery dress. She had little black beady eyes that were always watching you when you thought they weren’t, and a voice like a fire alarm. Not even one of those new soothing fire alarms that play nice relaxing ditties about how great it’ll be once you escape the burning building, oh no. Mrs Snagg’s voice was like an old-fashioned screechy fire alarm that made your eardrums give up on hearing and apply for a job in your pancreas, where it’s quieter and there’s a better pension plan. She liked to fill in other people’s crosswords with the wrong words in permanent pen, and she hated all boys, especially ones called Casper Candlewacks.

Now that Mrs Snagg had the attention of the class, she continued. “Today, instead of geography, we’ve got a very special art class. Now I’m sure you’re all awfully excited about The Great Tiramisu’s visit to our village tomorrow night, so to celebrate, we’ll be drawing pictures of him to put on the wall!”

Casper groaned. But for the rest of the children of Class 6, this announcement was about as exciting as disco-dancing squirrels. Celebratory cheers rang out, fireworks were let off and some small children were thrown into the air.

“Drawing instead of joglaphy? This is better than Christmiss!” declared a buoyant Ted Treadington.

Teresa Louncher was equally excited. “I’m gunna draw him with felt-tips!” she said.

For Casper, life had reached its lowest possible point. Normally, drawing would be a brilliant replacement for any real schoolwork, but even the most sleepifyingly dull geography lesson seemed better than having to draw that wand-wielding, pizza-guzzling fop. The Great Tiramisu was all that anyone had talked about for weeks, and it was getting right on Casper’s nerves. Yes, he could pull a badger out of a hat, but who couldn’t? And of course he had once made the entire population of Norway disappear, and reappear in Belgium, but who wants to see that anyway? Certainly not the Belgians – they didn’t have enough space or waffles to go round, and the whole thing ended in quite a considerable war. Casper had seen The Great Tiramisu on TV – he was snooty, arrogant and his hair was too shiny. He said things like “Mamma Mia!” and applauded himself after each magic trick. Everything from his long, swizzly moustache to his cheesy Italian accent annoyed Casper almost enough to put him off a bowl of cheesy Italian spaghetti bolognese with chips. How could no one else see that? The villagers of Corne-on-the-Kobb loved The Great Tiramisu like he was giving out free chocolate cake, and it just didn’t make sense. Casper solemnly refused to spend the next two hours drawing someone he’d much rather spend the next two hours firing angry gerbils at, with an angry gerbil gun.

“What’s wrong, Casper?” said the class bully and teacher’s pet, Anemonie Blight, who was already halfway through her pink drawing, entitled ‘The Grate Terimisew’. “Forgotten how to use your hands?” The other girls laughed, but not because it was funny. If you didn’t laugh at one of Anemonie’s jokes, she’d probably bite you later.

Casper’s face went red. “No, I just don’t want to draw him, that’s all.”

“Miss! Miss!” cried Anemonie.

Mrs Snagg, angered after being distracted from her copy of Hunks in Trunks by some whingeing, snotty-faced child, saw that it was Anemonie Blight and smiled as sweetly as her sour old face would let her.

“What’s bothering you, my huggypumpkin?”

“Casper isn’t doing the work, miss.” Anemonie shot a dirty look over at Casper, which stung as it hit him. “He’s not drawing The Great Tiramisu.”

Mrs Snagg peered poisonously at Casper with her little beady eyes. “Is this true, boy?”

“No, miss.” Casper looked down at his blank piece of paper. “I’m just… drawing him in white.”

“That’s a lie, miss,” said Anemonie. “He said the work was stupid and he hated drawing and then he hit me and stole my pink pencil.”

“What? I didn’t!”

Mrs Snagg drew in a deep breath and puffed up her chest. “Too good for drawing, are we, Candlewacks? In that case, you’ll write five pages on why The Great Tiramisu is such a wonderful man and an inspiration to us all.”

Anemonie and the others guffawed, as Casper recoiled from the blow. “But, miss—” he started.

“Shut up!” said Mrs Snagg, her shrill tones reverberating nauseatingly around the classroom like the screech of a badly played clarinet. “You start writing.”

Casper turned to look at Anemonie. He despised that little brat, with her long brown hair and squinty eyes, and that little pointy nose just like her mother’s. She had corrected her title to ‘The Grait Tiremesoo’, and was now defacing Teresa Louncher’s drawing with her scissors and eyeliner pencil. Casper didn’t think he was too good for drawing. He loved drawing good stuff, like log flumes, goblins and helicopter gunships. But The Great Tiramisu wasn’t good stuff, and he didn’t deserve to be drawn.

The clock had ticked itself along happily, like a time bomb, but in the other direction and with no explosions. In the last two hours Casper had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, slain a fire-breathing dragon and landed a fighter plane behind enemy lines, but he had most definitely not finished his work. Most of Class 6 were adding the finishing touches to their pictures. Anemonie Blight looked most proud of her creation (she had used eyeliner and lip gloss, with dried pasta for the legs), but Lamp Flannigan, who had forgotten the legs completely, was now frantically taping on an extra piece of paper to make space for them. So when Mrs Snagg rose from her desk and shouted “Time’s up!” Casper looked at the clock, and then down at his paper, and then up at the clock again, and then down at his paper again, with horror. He’d written two and a half words! They were good words, but that didn’t matter. ‘I like Th’ was not five pages. It wasn’t even close, unless he had written in really big writing, or used tiny paper, but he hadn’t done either. If Mrs Snagg saw that he hadn’t completed his punishment, he’d be in all flavours of trouble.

Casper scoured his desk for anything that might pass for his completed punishment. Finding a piece of last week’s homework, he scrubbed out the title (‘Where is Brazil, and Why?’) and replaced it with ‘Why The Great Tiramisu is such a wonderful man and an inspiration to us all’. Casper shuffled to the front of the class and handed the paper to Mrs Snagg. The whole class went silent – silent as a mouse that had lost its voice and didn’t even have anything to say anyway. Anemonie stopped pulling Teresa Louncher’s hair for a moment and watched intently.

Mrs Snagg pored over the first page, blinking slowly. (She couldn’t actually read, so she just pretended to.) She turned the paper over, nodded and put a little tick next to a map of Brazil. She skipped to the third page, and then the fourth, and then stopped, and looked up quizzically at Casper.

“Didn’t I say five pages, Candlewacks?”

Casper looked down at his work and swallowed. His homework was only four pages long. “Miss, I…”

“And how many did you write?” Mrs Snagg’s spiky face grew redder, her whole upper body began to prickle.

“Four, miss.”

“And what do we say about laziness, Candlewacks?” An onlooker might have been worried that this woman was about to explode all over the room, or at least puncture and deflate like a soggy balloon.

“Miss…”

“What do we say?” spat Mrs Snagg, face now an impressive shade of purple.

Casper’s stomach knotted with embarrassment as he mumbled out the much-repeated rhyme: “‘Lazy boys will get no toys; idle girls won’t marry Earls’, miss.”

“And you,” she pointed her grubby old finger at Casper, “are lazy. You’ll write me ten pages on ‘Why I will neither get any toys nor marry any Earls’, for tomorrow morning.”

This was incredibly unfair. “Miss!” said Casper. “This is incredibly unfair.”

“Don’t answer back,” Mrs Snagg shook as she shouted. “Fifteen pages.”

“What?”

“Fine, Twenty.”

“I didn’t even—”

“Twenty-five! Now go!”

Chapter 2

Lamp Flannigan

Corne-on-the-Kobb is a lovely little village. It has a church, a park, a school and a restaurant. There’s a pub, a shop and a flock of tame pigeons in the village square. But hidden away from real life, in the valley of the River Kobb, there’s not much reason to go there.

In fact, no one goes to Corne-on-the-Kobb unless they live there or they’ve got a faulty satnav.

Casper Candlewacks had decided long ago that he didn’t like living in Corne-on-the-Kobb. It was boring and tiring and lonely, and there were never any adventures to be had. Sometimes Casper thought about moving abroad, to Turkey, Thailand, or even Tunbridge Wells, but then he thought about the food and the tigers, and decided against it.

Casper trudged home dejectedly. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen someone trudge dejectedly, but it’s not a gainly sight. It’s all arms and legs and huffs. Corne-on-the-Kobb was pretty today, in the sun, but Casper didn’t notice. He felt horrible. That, he thought to himself, was probably the second worst day of school he’d ever had (after that one with the penguins). Twenty-five pages! For what? He trudged through the village square, past the weathered statue of Sir Gossamer D’Glaze with his glittering bejewelled sword, and past the pigeons (who were merrily pecking at a DO NOT FEED THE PIGEONS sign).

“’Ere, Casperr.” It was Sandy Landscape, Corne-onthe-Kobb’s ‘Second Best Gardener of the Year’ for twenty years running and then ‘First Best Gardener of the Year’ for another twelve, after the other chap got eaten by a Venus Flytrap. It’s a dangerous business, gardening.

“Oh, hello, Mr Landscape,” Casper replied. Sandy Landscape was the last thing he needed on an afternoon where all he really wanted to do was trudge.

“You ’aven’t seen a goat runnin’ about, ’av yer? ’E’s about this high, brown ’air, grey beard, looks a bit like a goat.”

Casper surveyed the square. “No, sorry. Haven’t seen one. Is he yours?”

“Oh, no, ’e’s not moine. ’E’s jus’ been munchin’ on my geraniums. Gonner teach ’im a lesson on mannerrs.” And with that, Sandy Landscape galloped away out of sight, giving the occasional call of “’Ere goaty goaty!”

Casper watched him disappear, and then got back to his trudging. He trudged past the shop and didn’t even go inside for a packet of crisps. He trudged through the park, where a flustered-looking woman was being chased by a goat, and turned right at the end to trudge down Feete Street, at which point he stopped trudging. Taped to a postbox in front of him was a poster for The Great Tiramisu. There he stood, moustache glistening, with his shiny purple suit and top hat, and a smarmy smirk that said, “I’m better than you in every possible way.” He was in the process of waving his magic wand at an oversized pack of cards. Casper read the little blurb beside the picture:

On the back of his award-winning, sellout World Tour, Italy’s most talented, beautiful and generally fabulous magician will be coming to YOUR village to baffle, amaze and inspire you with his one-of-a-kind magic extravaganza! Have you ever seen a levitating lion? Have you ever seen a man transform into a bowl of raspberry jelly? Neither has The Great Tiramisu, but he’s working on it…

Casper sighed. Why did everyone like The Great Tiramisu so much? He was just a tacky illusionist with a crush on his own reflection and a sell-out world tour.

“I don’t like him either,” said Lamp Flannigan. Casper jumped about two metres in the air. “Agh! Lamp! I’ve told you not to do that!”

“Not do what?”

“Not to creep up on me! It’s… well… it’s creepy!”

The boy looked down at his feet (which had a sponge attached to each sole) and said, “Sorry, Casper. I didn’t mean to.” He walked a few steps away, turned and making as much noise he could (which wasn’t much, given the sponge shoes) he stomped back towards Casper. “Is that better?”

“It’s a bit late now, Lamp, you’ve already shocked me.”

Lamp Flannigan was an idiot. Of all the idiots in Class 6, Lamp was the most idiotic. He was such an idiot that even the residents of Corne-on-the-Kobb thought it, and if a group of idiots think you’re an idiot, you’ve probably got a thing or two to worry about up there. Lamp was such an idiot that he couldn’t even spell the word ‘a’. He couldn’t tie his shoelaces and he thought babies grew on trees. He always wore his trousers back-to-front, he was scared of trains… you get the point. Lamp was short, chunky and had a warm face with wide, vacant green eyes. He had dark scruffy hair that looked like he’d lent it to a chimney sweep for a while, and a bulbous nose that dongled downwards, like a big, ripe, nose-coloured pear with nostrils.

Lamp liked inventing things. He spent most of his time at the Kobb Valley rubbish tip where he trawled the place for driveshafts and gearboxes. He then took them all home, stuck them together with wood glue, and wondered why they didn’t work. Lamp had built wind-powered space rockets, underwater helicopters and bicycles for dogs. The villagers of Corne-on-the-Kobb didn’t try to stop him; after all, it wasn’t hurting anyone (apart from the cycling dog, who escaped with minor bruises and a fear of handlebars). Amazingly, none of Lamp’s inventions had had much success. If you’re wondering about the sponge shoes, they were his invention too. They were designed for walking on water.

“Can we walk home together?” said Lamp. “Lamp, you live that way.” Casper pointed in the direction of Lamp’s house, the opposite way down the street.

Poor Lamp Flannigan was confused. He waited for a moment, and then said, “Can we walk home together?”

Casper rolled his eyes. “Fine, come on.”

As they walked, Lamp told Casper about his latest invention. “It’s a motorised buggy, but it runs on washing-up liquid. You know – what you wash dishes with. I haven’t got it working yet because I haven’t got any washing-up liquid, but I’ll find some soon. And it sits two people, so when it’s finished we can drive around town, you and me!”

“I’ve got to do that punishment tonight, Lamp. I can’t go on your buggy until it’s finished.” He didn’t want to go on Lamp’s buggy at all because he valued having his limbs still attached to his body, but the punishment was a good excuse.

Lamp chuckled and carried on. “That’s all right, I understand. Mrs Snagg was mean to you today. She’s mean to everyone. Apart from Enemy.”

Casper looked at Lamp quizzically. “Enemy?”

“Yeah, Emenemy,” said Lamp.

“Anemonie?”

He tried again. “Emenony.”

“Anemonie!”

“Aminime?”

They walked in silence for a bit, turning the corner into Cracklin Crescent, where Casper lived.

“Are you going to see The Great Tyrannosaurus then?” asked Lamp.

Casper shook his head. “No, I can’t stand him. He thinks he’s better than everyone else, but he’s not.”

“I don’t really understand magic,” said Lamp, “but my mum got me a ticket. She says I should take up other hobbies, not just inventing. I told her there was no point because I’m going to be a famous inventor and I’m going to invent the self-cleaning armchair, but she doesn’t care.”

“The self-cleaning armchair?”

“I know! Why has nobody thought of it before? Anyway, do you want to come with me? Mum got another ticket for a friend and you’re my best friend.” Casper was Lamp’s best friend, whether he liked it or not.

However much Casper hated the idea of going, he really didn’t want to hurt Lamp’s feelings either. “OK. I suppose I’ll come with you.”

Lamp grinned.

“But no inventions, all right?”

Lamp’s grin faded. “I was going to wear my glow-in-the-dark trousers!”

Lamp’s glow-in-the-dark trousers were just a pair of back-to-front jeans with a torch stuck on each leg.

Casper looked worried. “I’m not sure that would be the best idea.”

“Fine,” said Lamp. “Not the trousers. Got it.”

By this time, the two boys had reached Casper’s front door. Casper could hear screeching from inside, followed by a loud bump, a howl and the smashing of glass.

“I think I’d better get inside.”

“Can I come in?”

“Not today, Lamp, I’ve got that punishment to do.”

“Okey-dokey. See you tomorrow.” Lamp waved and sponged off down the road. Then he stopped, turned round and sponged back in the other direction. He stopped again, scratched his head and looked back at Casper.

“That way.” Casper pointed in the direction of Lamp’s house. As Lamp walked off, Casper opened the door and made his way in, ducking just in time to avoid the orange glob of unidentified flying baby food that flew past his head and splatted on the wall behind him. “Great,” groaned Casper. “Feeding time.”

Chapter 3

Meet the Candlewackses

In this chapter, I’d like to talk to you about the mating patterns of Indonesian Wasps. But, given that the title is ‘Meet The Candlewackses’, that’s probably a bad idea. Perhaps there’ll be space for it later.

Casper dreaded coming home, every single day. It’s not that school was much better, but at least there he could get some sleep. Home was just horrible. First, there was his mum, Amanda Candlewacks. Amanda was once the most beautiful young woman in the Kobb Valley. She had flowing, golden hair that shone in the sun like radioactive noodles. She wore dresses made of pure, hand-woven silk and rode around on the back of a magical oversized butterfly. But then she married Casper’s father, they had their first little blond-haired baby, and it all went a bit wrong. Life got too stressful for Amanda and her escape was television. At first, she just watched the soaps. She’d track the goings-on of the folks down at Rudgebunkle Farm like there was a test on it afterwards. Then she got into the hospital dramas, and the knitting shows, and the late-night high stakes games of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Soon she wouldn’t miss a second of any of the sit-coms, even My Sister’s a Llama and Mates?!. Now she practically lived on that sofa, only getting up at advert breaks. She watched How Clean is your Face? and Cooking with Dinosaurs, sometimes The World’s Funniest Nostrils and always Whose Flan? Her once flowing, golden hair now resembled a dirty handful of dry straw, and she hadn’t ridden on the back of any magical oversized butterflies for years.

The poor woman was addicted to that telly like Betty Woons was addicted to jelly beans.

Casper’s dad, Julius Candlewacks, had to cook, clean, sweep, mop and dust. He had to do all the washing, get the weekly shopping and tend to his rapidly receding hairline. Add to that his job, head chef at The Boiled Sprout – the best (and worst) restaurant in Corne-on-the-Kobb – and the eight- month-old baby that he had to raise, Julius’s life was about as hellish as sticking your tongue in a hole punch. Casper was glad he didn’t have his dad’s life (or his hairline), but he did feel sorry for the man. He’d not had a day off for years, didn’t have any spare time for friends or sleep, and he hardly even spoke to Casper unless he was asking for help with the baby.

But it gets worse because this was no ordinary baby. This was Cuddles Candlewacks. Cuddles liked kicking, screaming and being sick and nothing else – except for biting. It loved biting. Cuddles was a tiny terror of a tiddler with six tremendous teeth, and preferred gnawing on people rather than cuddling them. Its teeth were razor-sharp, more like fangs, really, and it wasn’t afraid to use them. Audrey Snugglepuss, after trying to pat Cuddles on the head, lost her left thumb. She can no longer play the trombone (which, to be honest, is a relief).

Casper had never noticed whether Cuddles was a boy or a girl, but it didn’t really matter; its teeth would be just as sharp either way. Cuddles was just… Cuddles. Amanda had never taken any notice of Cuddles at all because it wasn’t on TV. Worst of all, since the last babysitter was admitted to hospital with multiple stab wounds and first-degree burns, when Julius went out to work every evening, Casper had to babysit.

“Hi, Dad,” Casper shouted. He stood in the cluttered hall next to an overturned pot plant. On his left was the darkened living room, where Amanda was slouched in her pyjamas, watching three pots of yoghurt splat about the screen. “Hi, Mum.”

No reply.

“Anything good on?”

“Shhh,” said Amanda, “this is a good bit.”

Casper walked past the stairs on his right, avoiding the patch of sick on the carpet, to the kitchen, where his father was overseeing Cuddles painting its face with its dinner. Julius was quite tall, with dark thinning hair and small ears. He wore a grubby chef’s jacket covered in sticky stains and crumbly bits, over a pair of mucky brown trousers that, years ago, used to be white. His chin was stubbly and unshaven and there were heavy bags under his eyes (eye bags, not shopping bags, you idiot). The poor man hadn’t had a full night of sleep since the day Cuddles was born.

“Come on, Cuddles. Eat this spoonful for Daddy…” pleaded Julius, prodding a plastic spoon towards the baby. Cuddles grabbed the spoon and flung it back at Julius, cackling with delight.

Casper surveyed the revolting mess that was the kitchen. There was baby food on the floor and quite a bit on the ceiling too. There was a massive pile of dirty pots and pans in the sink, sporting all different sorts of mould and grease, from putrid purple patches to stinking sepia slimy bits. Two smashed plates had been left on the floor next to the leftover cabbage, which a troop of hungry ants had recently invaded. They were now celebrating their victory by having a tiny ant-party with even tinier bottles of champagne and minuscule party hats.

“House needs a clean,” said Casper.

A pile of newspapers on the corner of the table began to ring. Julius looked at them and frowned. They rang again. Julius blinked. “Why are they…?”

“It’s the phone, Dad. Under the papers.”

Casper’s bedraggled father clicked his teeth and lifted the pile carelessly, strewing hundreds of issues of the Daily Kobb all over the kitchen floor, one particularly bulky sports section landing right on the cabbage, causing an early and tragic end to the ant-party. Not a moment too soon, Julius found the phone and answered it, while Cuddles stretched to grab the receiver with its chubby little arms.

“Hello, Candlewacks residence. Yes, speaking. It’s who? Ooh…” Julius looked up, caught Casper’s eye and tried frantically to mime something. He waved his arm around a bit and then put his finger on his top lip like a moustache and looked at Casper encouragingly.

“What?” said Casper. He thought his dad might have been trying to say something about cricket.

Julius mimed a sort of ‘forget it’ gesture and continued. “How may I help you, Mr Tiramisu, sir?”

Casper’s jaw dropped.

“You’d like to… well, of course! I’d be honoured. Will you excuse me for just one second, Mr Tiramisu, I just need to attend to a… cooking thing.” Julius snatched a dummy and jammed it into a wailing Cuddles’s mouth, but it chomped it in half and started smacking the pieces on its tray.

Casper looked over to his dad in disbelief. “Did you say Tiramisu?”

“It’s him!” Julius whispered to Casper. “He wants to eat at The Boiled Sprout!” He grinned manically and shook his fist like footballers do when they score goals, or like chefs do when famous Italian magicians want to eat at their restaurant.

“That’s great!” Casper lied. It wasn’t great, it was terrifying. Who knows what The Great Tiramisu would demand, but whatever it was, Julius wouldn’t be able to do it. And then what would happen…?

Julius whispered again, “Get me a pen and paper, quick!”

Cuddles launched again for the phone, but completely missed and almost toppled its high chair. It let out a frustrated screech and then distracted itself by gnawing on a mouthful of its own fingers.

Returning to the phone call, Julius said, “Sorry, Mr Tiramisu, I had to put the finishing touches to a dish. A scream? No, I don’t think… oh yes, one of my sous-chefs. Child? Well, I like to hire them when they’re young. So, ahem, is there anything you’d like to eat in particular?” Just in time, Casper handed his dad the pad of paper and he scrawled frantically,

TiramisuTomorrow, after show Finest Food IMPORTANT: NO CORIANDER

… and then Cuddles got its greedy little hand to the phone, grabbed it, threw it at the wall and it smashed into hundreds of little phoney pieces.

Chapter 3.5

All the Facts That Exist About Coriander.

Coriander was first discovered in 1834 by Sir Digmund Coriander-Discoverer, when he was looking in his garden for a little something to add flavour to his carrot soup. He tried adding grass, but it tasted too lawny; so next he tried some bark, but it tasted too tree-ey. Then he noticed, nestling amongst the lupins, a mysterious aromatic herb. He put some in his soup and the rest, as they say, is cookery.

Here are some fun facts about coriander that you may or may not know:

In some countries, coriander is used for medicinal purposes, such as in Burma, where it is the accepted treatment for a cracked rib.

A particularly leafy sprig of coriander won the 1997 Oscar for ‘Best Herb in a Supporting Role’ in the film Coriander and Me.

The small English village of Upper Crustenbury, in the picturesque Kobb Valley, is famous for its bountiful coriander crops; so much so that its residents hold an annual coriander festival to celebrate their favourite herb.

The word ‘coriander’ comes from the Romanian, Quarie ain derr, which, due to a small translation error, literally means ‘A small, sticky badger with a pair of shorts on its head’.

Famous Italian magician ‘The Great Tiramisu’ is violently allergic to coriander. If he eats even the smallest amount, his face inflates and turns green and he breaks out in big oozing yellow pustules. Because of this, he telephones ahead of his visit to any restaurant to ask specifically that no coriander be added to his food.

These are all the facts that exist about coriander. If anyone tells you any more coriander facts, they are lying and should be pelted with rotten quinces. If you don’t have any quinces to hand, a handful of chopped apricots will do fine.

Chapter 4

What Casper Saw

The whole village had turned out to see The Great Tiramisu, apart from Julius, Cuddles and Amanda Candlewacks, and the one-hundred-and-seven-year-old Betty Woons, who had hated magic ever since her husband was killed by a wild pack of cards. Everyone else was there, even the village mascot, Fatima the ferret, who was sitting in her cage in the front row nibbling on a vole. The magic show was nearing an end, and even Casper had quite enjoyed it, apart from the fact that Lamp Flannigan had taken the ‘no glow-in-the-dark trousers’ comment to mean no trousers at all, which had caused great embarrassment for Casper and hilarity for Anemonie and chums. Lamp thought all the laughing was a good thing, so he made some manly poses and showed off his legs, none of which made it any better.

The Great Tiramisu’s grand finale involved locking a volunteer, giggly little Teresa Louncher, in an underwater metal cage, and then impaling her with two sharpened (but rather bewildered) swordfish. The swordfish were removed, the cage was lifted out of the water, the magic wand was waved and Teresa sprang back to life, screeching with delight. At this point the audience in the village hall erupted with tumultuous applause like a really impressed volcano.

“He’s utterly delightful!” screamed Audrey Snugglepuss, village gossip and vice-chairwoman of the Corne-on-the-Kobb Carrot Cake Appreciation Society, from behind Casper.

“An’ so good wiv swordfish,” said Sandy Landscape, “but how’d ’e do that there one with the cheese and the dynamite?” (If you’re interested, he had a hidden mirror behind the walrus. Simple, really.)

It was most certainly a standing ovation. If there were an even better ovation than a standing one, like a jumping ovation or something, it would have been that. For the idiots of Corne-on-the-Kobb, Christmas and Birthday and Halloween and even Saint Pelican’s Day had come all at once, in the shape of a moustache-sporting Italian illusionist who could make bagfuls of rabbits disappear. Most of the villagers would have been impressed if he’d flipped a coin or jangled some keys, so you can imagine how amazed they were when The Great Tiramisu got cut in half, locked his legs in a safe, put that safe in another safe, put that safe in a box full of snakes, angered the snakes by insulting their mother, and then somehow unlocked the safes and glued himself together again, blindfolded, hands tied behind his back, while asleep.

“I thank-a you all, you beautiful people! Wasn’t I magnifico!” sang the magician, as some of the women near the front threw bunches of freshly picked dandelions and salad leaves at his feet. Mayor Rattsbulge, Corne-on-the-Kobb’s fattest mayor since the pie tax was abolished, managed to lift his hefty frame on stage to thank The Great Tiramisu personally and to offer him the key to the village (which he accepted reluctantly because he hadn’t a clue what it was for) along with a bouquet of summer roses presented by Anemonie Blight in a sickly pink frock and matching hairband. Yes, The Great Tiramisu was a show-off of the vilest proportions, but Casper had to admit that his magic tricks had actually been quite good.

As the excited idiots filed out of the village hall, Lamp, still without trousers, approached Casper eagerly. “Want to come and try my buggy? I’ve got some washing-up liquid now. Found it in a shop.”

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