Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. Tricks
2. Sticks
3. Tricks
4. Sticks
5. Tricks
6. Sticks
7. Tricks
8. Sticks
9. Sticks
10. Tricks
11. Sticks
12. Tricks
13. Sticks
14. Tricks
15. Sticks
16. Tricks
17. Sticks
18. Sticks
19. Tricks
20. Sticks
21. Tricks
22. Sticks
Postscript About the Magic
Postscript About the Drumming
About the Author
Also by Alan Fraser
Copyright
Fiddlesticks
Illustrated by Nigel Baines
For all the clan
at Burnside House
WHEN STEF GOT the magic show, his sister Maddy went bananas. That was her gig, wasn’t it? She was the stage-school princess.
‘I only went along to grab a lift home,’ he said, ‘and somehow it just sort of happened.’
Somehow!
That’s Stef all over.
Somehow he eats like four sumo wrestlers but looks like half a jockey. Somehow he stands up to Killer Frost and lives. Somehow he goes off swimming and finds he’s brought along his football kit. I could go on.
‘So let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘The thing was running late and they thought you were there to audition.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you thought why not?’
‘Well, you know.’
‘So they made you climb a rope?’
‘That’s right.’
‘For a magic audition?’
‘Yep.’
‘And now you’re appearing in Ellington Moon’s winter show?’
‘Me and a few others. We’re kind of sharing the job.’
‘Right.’
Now, what you need to know is this – I’ll keep it short – we have this theatre in Flittering. It’s actually a converted chapel and most of the time it struggles along with stuff that nobody goes to. Well, nobody I know. It’s things like Mersey, Mersey – A tribute to the Liverpool Scene or The Teeny-Weeny Theatre Company presents The Anguish of Delilah. Anyway, the thing is, it’s not much of a theatre, but every year, for a month before Christmas, it’s the place to be. People come from miles and miles. Because this is when Ellington Moon takes over.
I bet you’ve heard of him. He’s got to be the top magician around and, amazingly, he lives near Flittering. I once saw him disappear these two men who were inside a panto horse and straightaway they came running in from the back of the theatre.
So anyway – two weeks ago, this advertisement appeared in the local rag. It said –
Well, according to Stef, Maddy was straight on her mobile. Maddy is totally set on being famous. She’s been going to this stage school for ages.
So, when what happened somehow happened, she went right over the edge. And just then she was upstairs having a massive stomp. She even made the ceiling shake.
‘Sorry ’bout the noise,’ said Stef, looking up.
‘S’OK.’
‘She says I’ve sabotaged her career.’
‘Right.’
‘She says I’m a hopeless amateur.’
‘Ah.’
‘She says I should’ve kept well away.’
‘I see.’
‘And listen – I think she’s coming down.’
He was right. The banging about had turned into clumping on the stairs. The door burst open and there she was.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ she announced with a face like sour milk. ‘When he realizes what he’s done . . . I feel really sorry for him.’
Then off she slammed.
‘She means Ellington Moon,’ Stef explained. ‘She feels sorry for Ellington Moon.’
‘I know.’
And, actually, I could see her point. Sort of. I mean, with Stef, life was a bit unpredictable – a bit you-never-knew-what-was-coming. But then that was why he was such fun. Plus, we were a team – Stef Spedding and Charlie Parker.
Some people say there’s a thin line between triumph and disaster, don’t they? Well, Stef does the triumph and disaster. Me, I kind of feel like the line.
MOSTLY, I LIVE with my mum. It’s just the two of us. She and Dad split up last year, so that’s why. It was pretty awful when it happened, but it’s not so bad now. I mean, it’s not brilliant, but I don’t let it get to me. At least I try not to.
Maybe that’s why I spend so much time with Stef. There’s five of them knocking around his house, so there’s always something going on. And our place is a bit of a graveyard – especially when Mum’s at work. She drives a van for the Co-op. And she could drive a lorry if they asked her – she’s got an HGV licence and everything!
Anyway, the week after Stef got the magic show, I was waiting for Mum to get home when Beryl came round. Our house is a semi, you see, and Beryl’s the other side. I think she’s been there for ever.
‘Hello, Mrs Brick,’ I said.
‘Oh, Charlie,’ she said, ‘can you help me get something from my loft?’
‘Er . . . of course. No probs.’
And it wasn’t any hassle. I mean, she’s a really nice neighbour. I know she doesn’t have much money but she always offers me biscuits when I pop round. And no way should she be climbing into lofts – not at her age. So I tramped next door and followed her up the stairs. When we got to the top, I pulled down the hatch and fixed up the ladder thing. Then I climbed up. I was wondering what I’d find there.
I couldn’t believe it!
There was masses of junk, of course. That’s lofts for you. There was even one of those dressmaker’s dummy things. But the thing Beryl was after – the thing I had to get down – was a real gobsmack.
It was a drum kit!
‘There should be three boxes,’ said Beryl.
And there were. One was an obvious drum shape. The others were more suitcasey.
Well, after a bit of a struggle – when I just about managed not to put my foot through the ceiling – I got the different bits down the ladder, into her spare room and onto the old lumpy bed there. Phew! The boxes were covered in dust, so Beryl got a cloth.
‘It must be forty years,’ she said, giving the things a wipe. ‘I remember my Henry putting them up there.’
‘I didn’t know Mr Brick played the drums.’
‘Well, he didn’t.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘Oh no, Charlie. My Henry had no sense of rhythm at all. These are my drums.’
‘You mean you were a drummer?’
‘No, Charlie.’ Beryl pulled at the buckle that held the biggest box tight. ‘I am a drummer.’
IT WAS MORNING break and we were looking for Spike. Everyone knew Spike was king of the back-wall smokers.
Anyway, while we were looking, I was telling Stef about Beryl and her drums.
‘You wouldn’t believe it!’ I said. ‘I mean, we’re supposed to make the racket and they’re supposed to have nervous breakdowns!’
‘You mean the crumblies?’
‘Exactly. Now we get this clunkety clunkety clunk coming through the wall – over and over and over.’
‘I expect they’re paradiddles.’
‘What?’
‘Paradiddles. It’s a drum pattern.’
‘Well, whatever she’s doing, it drives me bonkers. And I can’t ignore it. I mean, whenever it stops, I sit there waiting for it to start up again.’
Stef just grinned.
‘You think it’s dead funny don’t you?’
But Stef didn’t answer that. The thing was he’d spotted our target. ‘Hey, Spike!’ he called, running down the corridor.
Well – it was just like we thought – Spike had plenty of matches and let Stef have what he needed. Me, I couldn’t believe how Stef could forget to bring his own. But that’s Stef all over.
‘Right,’ I said once we’d found a quiet corner, ‘so let’s see this trick then.’
Now what you need to know is this – while I was suffering Beryl’s never-ending paradoodles, or whatever they were – Stef had been to see Ellington Moon. He’d met the other assistants too. There were four of them, he said. None of the others were at our school, but one girl, Anna, lived in Flittering and Stef said she was OK – for a girl.
Ellington Moon had this amazing room in his house – which was where they’d sat round a big table covered in a green cloth. It was like a magic museum, Stef said. The walls were covered in huge posters for old-time magicians. Against two of the walls were big glass cabinets full of fantastic stuff. There were old books and magic boxes and Chinese dragon silks and silver hoops and crystal balls and enormous playing cards and flowers made from feathers and top hats and golden wands and devils masks. Well, the way Stef described everything, it had obviously made a big impression. It did on me – and I wasn’t even there.
‘So what are you doing in the show?’ I’d asked Stef.
‘Dunno,’ he’d said.
Ellington Moon wouldn’t tell them. That would all come later. First they had to learn about magic. If they didn’t know about magic, apparently, then they couldn’t help him. Ellington Moon told them that the secret of magic was psychology. If you know how people think, you know how to fool them.
Then – to sort of prove his point – Ellington Moon taught them this trick with two matches. This was the thing that Stef was showing me.
‘It’s not really a trick at all,’ said Stef. ‘It’s more sort of scientific – like an experiment. I think it’s something to do with the chemicals in the match heads.’
I felt a bit disappointed at that – until I saw what he did!
‘What you have to do,’ he explained, ‘is rub one match like this until it’s charged up with static electricity.’ He rubbed the thing on the arm of his sweatshirt. ‘Then you balance it on the other match, like this.’