Casper Candlewacks in the Attack of the Brainiacs! (10 page)

After Jean-Claude's escapades that afternoon, Casper wasn't surprised to see that the menu on the blackboard outside
Bistro D'Escargot
had grown since yesterday. Along with
Omelette
, still free for every customer, there was now
Chilli
Bean Stew
,
Sausage Soufflé with Whisky-infused Carrots
,
Pigeon Liver with White Truffle Jus
,
Potato à l'Escargot
and hot
Pumpkin Pie
, followed by
Carrot Cake
or a selection of
pastries
for dessert, each one piped to bursting with gloopy chocolate sauce. There was free seed for the pigeons and a cold meat selection for people who didn't like warm meat.

There were queues outside both restaurants, however, and Julius's menu was, if possible, even more British than yesterday. Casper dashed inside just in time to dole out the first steaming plates of
Haggis and Tartan Sauce
,
Lancashire Hotpot with Steamed Pound Coins
, extra-messy
Eton Mess
and pots of
Royal Jelly
(made with real royals). All of the courses had been arranged into the shape of Union Jacks to emphasise The Battered Cod's
Britishness, although the
British Beechwood-smoked Rack of Ribs
looked more like a skull and crossbones.

Once the diners had found their tables, Julius led a rousing rendition of the national anthem and waved a big flag. Everybody gladly sang along, but Mayor Rattsbulge replaced the word ‘Queen' with ‘Mayor' each time it came round.

Amanda skipped in soon afterwards to serve drinks, Cuddles under her arm. The baby's job for the evening was to be a jukebox; Casper stuck Cuddles to the wall with half a roll of masking tape and let the songs from the TuneBrick™ in her belly float through the restaurant, adding much-needed warmth and clinky piano noises.

Casper surveyed the bustling restaurant in awe – the customers were happy. Betty Woons had
removed her teeth to suck on a haggis; Clemmie Answorth had fallen off her chair, clutching a stripped-bare pork rib and singing with delight; and Mitch McMassive was smacking his lips with relish as he polished off his breadcrumb. Casper grinned to himself. At this rate, Jean-Claude stood no chance on Friday. Things couldn't get much better.

And then, they didn't.

Ting-a-ling.

Jean-Claude stood in the open doorway with either blood or tomato spattering his chef's whites, arms held out wide as grandly as a stubbly-faced French food critic could manage without not being a stubbly-faced French food critic any more. “Ladies and ze Gentlemans!”

Julius stomped out of the kitchen, his frying
pan held aloft. “OY! What d'you think you're doing here?”

Jean-Claude spat on the carpet and turned away from Julius to the customers. “Zis evening, at
Bistro D'Escargot
, ze Lamp Flannigan lecture series is beginning at last. Tonight—”

“GET OUT!”

“Tonight,” continued Jean-Claude, deftly dodging a frying-pan shot, “‘Ze Tidal Patterns of North-East Vietnam!'”

Casper looked on, bewildered, as a shiver of excitement passed over the restaurant.

“Ooh!” squealed Audrey Snugglepuss. “Will it be complicated?”

“Oh, so complicate,” said Jean-Claude.

“And sums?” added Mrs Trimble. “Will there be sums?”

“Ze sums galore,
Madame
. Follow me!”

Chairs graunched and bottoms lifted, the owners of aforementioned bottoms leaping from their places to follow Jean-Claude.

“No!” screamed Julius. “Are you mad? Who in their right mind wants to hear a lecture about tidal patterns?”

“WE DO!” chorused the villagers, and they piled out of The Battered Cod in an excited heap.

Ting-a-ling.

The sudden silence was shocking. An empty room lay before Casper, save for a stunned Julius standing by the door and a pigeon on Table 4 pecking lightly at a chip.

“Dad, I…” There wasn't really anything to say. He nodded at the pigeon. “At least we still have one customer.”

“Would it like a cocktail?” asked Amanda.

Julius just stood there, watching the trail of customers file into
Bistro D'Escargot
.

Casper's stomach growled more loudly than ever. Lamp was delivering lectures now? And the villagers wanted to hear them? And what about this afternoon with all those new discoveries? And the bus journey, where the kids were doing times tables and reading philosophy… What had happened to everybody? It was as if they'd all changed. It was as if Corne-on-the-Kobb was no longer a village of idiots. More like a village of…brainiacs. “Dad, stay there. I'll be right back.”

Inspired, Casper dashed out of the restaurant and travelled the length of the square in two twists of a pigeon's neck.

He reached the door of
Bistro D'Escargot
.
“They can't be. Not all of them.” He burst through the door shoulder first, like an MI5 agent with a free meal coupon. “Right!”

One hundred sets of cutlery (and one set of Clemmie Answorth) dropped to the floor. The diners gasped and turned to face their invader. Candlelight flickered on each table, casting hundreds of wobbly shadows on the velvet-clad walls. At the far end, Lamp Flannigan stood by a flipchart with a cross-section of a wave covered in dense technical calculations, the drawing of a drowning stick-man and a misfired omelette. He held a long breadstick like a pointer, although there was a bite out of one end where he'd pointed it too close to Mayor Rattsbulge. There was quite a long pause, and then Lamp said, “Hullo, Casper.”

Casper's face went all red and he felt a bit silly.
Why the big entrance? “Um, hi.”

“What you are wanting, boy?” The challenge came from Jean-Claude D'Escargot, his arms folded sternly and another soggy cigarette flopping from his lips. A pitying laugh burst from within him. “Hah! You have come for to steal my customers?”

Casper's brain ground into motion again as he remembered his task. “No, sir. In fact, I'd like to sing your diners a song.”

A raspberry ripple of excitement spread through the restaurant.

“Ooh!” cried Audrey Snugglepuss “Do you do requests?”

“Sing ‘God Save our Mayor'!” shouted Mayor Rattsbulge.

Jean-Claude snorted. “What is zis nonsense?”

“I give up, sir. I'm swapping sides. Sinking ship and all that. You're obviously going to win this Friday, so what's the point sticking with my dad? I thought you might want… some entertainment. Y'know, as an apology.”

A sparkle of victory crossed Jean-Claude's face. “I am seeing you did not inherit your fazzer's stupidity. You are forgiven, boy.” He rested a hairy hand on Casper's shoulder.

Casper shuddered under the Frenchman's grip. “Yeah.”

“
Monsieur
Flannigan, do you mind zis interruption?”

“I love songs!” wiggled Lamp, laying aside his breadstick. “Can I do dancing?”

Casper scowled at Lamp. If he let himself say all he wanted to say about breaking promises and
batting for the wrong team, he'd give himself away.
Later
, Casper told himself. For now, the time had come to sing. Casper cleared his throat and took a moment to swallow down his nerves.

Jean-Claude leant back against the wall and watched Casper with a thick-lipped smirk.

A hundred pairs of eyes watched Casper expectantly. His knees knocked, his heart fluttered, his hands couldn't find a comfortable place to hang.
Here we go
, Casper thought to himself.
This is it.
Then he felt his mouth open and a noise tumbled out.

“
Oh
,
pi's a mathematical constant,

Not a meaty treat you find in your fridge,

If you give it a bit of work you'll

Find the area of a circle,

Which is useful when you're building a bridge.
”

Absolute silence. Casper's voice cracked. No point stopping now…

“
Sing it with me now: three point one four one…
”