. . orange juice . . . sorry, I must have got distracted for a moment.’
She turned and zigzagged back to the bar again.
‘And some crisps too, please!’ called Izzy after her. Her mum waved a hand in acknowledgement.
‘Cheese and onion!’ Izzy turned to me. ‘How did it go?’
‘Like a car with no wheels. It didn’t go anywhere,’ I said. ‘You were right, though, he’d scare the socks off a blood-drinking monster from outer space. At least I’ve managed to prove to myself that he’s no more in touch with the dead than I am.’ I told her about him not recognising me.
‘That’s a relief,’ said Izzy. ‘The research I’ve been doing today has been rather comforting, too. There was a lot of info about the history of fake mediums. It makes me see what a fool I was to start wondering if Godfrey Frye was genuine or not!’
‘Once I’ve seen his act and we know how it’s done, we can prove to your uncle that because Frye is a fake, this get-rich-quick scheme – whatever it turns out to be – is going to be a waste of time.’
A spotlight pointing at the stage curtains suddenly flashed into life. The point where the curtains met in the middle flapped apart and Izzy’s uncle appeared to a round of applause from the audience.
He raised a microphone to his beaming smile. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and welcome to The Pig and Fiddle. In a short while, we will once again be presenting the master of mysticism, Mr Godfrey Frye. But first, back again by popular demand, the local legends who are . . . The Fat Dads!’
An almighty cheer rose up, as Izzy’s uncle scuttled out of the way and the curtains parted. Taking up superstar-shaped poses on the stage was a four-piece band: a drummer, two guitarists and that weirdly-dressed man who’d been at the bar on lead vocals. The rest of the band were dressed even more weirdly than he was, with spiked, multi-coloured hairdos and leather collars around their necks.
The crowd cheered themselves hoarse. I looked around in total bewilderment. I spotted Izzy’s mum, back by the bar, jumping up and down and whooping at the top of her voice.
‘What on earth is this?’ I shouted to Izzy above the din of the crowd.
‘The Fat Dads. They’re a punk-rock tribute band,’ shouted Izzy above the sudden clashing of electric guitars. ‘They’re a local group – they play here quite regularly. The lead singer there is called Jimmy. He and Uncle Raphael go way back.’
The band was bashing out a song which appeared to be called ‘Zurp Yar Dweebo Deeba’. Izzy and I were obviously the only ones who weren’t loving every second of it. Izzy’s mum was now leaping from side to side and clapping along with the beat.
‘Your mum’s quite keen on them, then?’ I yelled.
‘I’m afraid so,’ yelled Izzy.
‘She knows Jimmy too, does she? Since she was chatting to him?’
‘Everyone knows Jimmy,’ howled Izzy. ‘And Jimmy knows everyone. He’s the nosiest person I’ve ever met, always gossiping. Even so, he’s best buddies with half the town. Don’t like him, personally. Rather full of himself.’
The band played for about half an hour. I could see why they’d called themselves The Fat Dads. They were all in their forties and they all had bellies hanging over the tops of their trousers like froth overflowing from a coffee cup.
‘He’s Mrs McEwan’s brother, you know,’ shouted Izzy.
What, Mrs McEwan our school secretary?’ I bellowed.
‘Yup. She tells him all about the cases you solve at school. Every time he sees me he wants to hear more stories about you. Nosy, like I said.’
The band finished their set with a five-minute series of chords and wails. The audience clapped and cheered as the four of them took half a dozen bows and bounded off backstage.
As the crowd settled down again, Izzy’s mum came back and plonked herself down between Izzy and me.
‘They’re such fun, aren’t they?’ she gasped, out of breath
She turned and zigzagged back to the bar again.
‘And some crisps too, please!’ called Izzy after her. Her mum waved a hand in acknowledgement.
‘Cheese and onion!’ Izzy turned to me. ‘How did it go?’
‘Like a car with no wheels. It didn’t go anywhere,’ I said. ‘You were right, though, he’d scare the socks off a blood-drinking monster from outer space. At least I’ve managed to prove to myself that he’s no more in touch with the dead than I am.’ I told her about him not recognising me.
‘That’s a relief,’ said Izzy. ‘The research I’ve been doing today has been rather comforting, too. There was a lot of info about the history of fake mediums. It makes me see what a fool I was to start wondering if Godfrey Frye was genuine or not!’
‘Once I’ve seen his act and we know how it’s done, we can prove to your uncle that because Frye is a fake, this get-rich-quick scheme – whatever it turns out to be – is going to be a waste of time.’
A spotlight pointing at the stage curtains suddenly flashed into life. The point where the curtains met in the middle flapped apart and Izzy’s uncle appeared to a round of applause from the audience.
He raised a microphone to his beaming smile. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and welcome to The Pig and Fiddle. In a short while, we will once again be presenting the master of mysticism, Mr Godfrey Frye. But first, back again by popular demand, the local legends who are . . . The Fat Dads!’
An almighty cheer rose up, as Izzy’s uncle scuttled out of the way and the curtains parted. Taking up superstar-shaped poses on the stage was a four-piece band: a drummer, two guitarists and that weirdly-dressed man who’d been at the bar on lead vocals. The rest of the band were dressed even more weirdly than he was, with spiked, multi-coloured hairdos and leather collars around their necks.
The crowd cheered themselves hoarse. I looked around in total bewilderment. I spotted Izzy’s mum, back by the bar, jumping up and down and whooping at the top of her voice.
‘What on earth is this?’ I shouted to Izzy above the din of the crowd.
‘The Fat Dads. They’re a punk-rock tribute band,’ shouted Izzy above the sudden clashing of electric guitars. ‘They’re a local group – they play here quite regularly. The lead singer there is called Jimmy. He and Uncle Raphael go way back.’
The band was bashing out a song which appeared to be called ‘Zurp Yar Dweebo Deeba’. Izzy and I were obviously the only ones who weren’t loving every second of it. Izzy’s mum was now leaping from side to side and clapping along with the beat.
‘Your mum’s quite keen on them, then?’ I yelled.
‘I’m afraid so,’ yelled Izzy.
‘She knows Jimmy too, does she? Since she was chatting to him?’
‘Everyone knows Jimmy,’ howled Izzy. ‘And Jimmy knows everyone. He’s the nosiest person I’ve ever met, always gossiping. Even so, he’s best buddies with half the town. Don’t like him, personally. Rather full of himself.’
The band played for about half an hour. I could see why they’d called themselves The Fat Dads. They were all in their forties and they all had bellies hanging over the tops of their trousers like froth overflowing from a coffee cup.
‘He’s Mrs McEwan’s brother, you know,’ shouted Izzy.
What, Mrs McEwan our school secretary?’ I bellowed.
‘Yup. She tells him all about the cases you solve at school. Every time he sees me he wants to hear more stories about you. Nosy, like I said.’
The band finished their set with a five-minute series of chords and wails. The audience clapped and cheered as the four of them took half a dozen bows and bounded off backstage.
As the crowd settled down again, Izzy’s mum came back and plonked herself down between Izzy and me.
‘They’re such fun, aren’t they?’ she gasped, out of breath
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