Stan was.
Before the start of the contest, heâd been like a greyhound fighting to get out of his trap: Gaby had had to hold his arms down to stop him getting stuck into the pies. So as soon as the whistle went, he grabbed his first pie, and took an enormous bite.
Thelmaâs grin was as wide as my tool bag.
Stan chomped like crazy, pie fat running down his chin. But the others were getting stuck in, too.
âKelly the Bellyâs on pie number two,â whispered Gaby.
But Stan was holding his own. Heâd already started on his third, and was at least six mouthfuls ahead of Charlie Pittam.
I wasnât really watching the competition; I was staring at Stanâs jaw. There was something not quite right about it. And I suddenlywondered whether I should have made more of an effort to fit the spare screws in somewhere.
âThe Growlerâs on pie number five,â shrieked Thelma. âCome on, Stan!â
He didnât need much encouragement. Stan increased his pace, and by the time he got to his seventh pie, he was in the lead. But Charlie was hard on his heels.
âLook!â shouted Gaby. âGrantâs on number eight.â
I couldnât really see Grant from where I was sitting. But I didnât bother trying too hard. I knew he was no match for Stan and Charlie.
I was right.
âStanâs on number ten,â roared Thelma.
But so was Charlieâ¦
âCome on, Charlie!â screamed his moon-faced girlfriend. The encouragement worked. Charlieâs rhythmic chewing stepped up a beat and within seconds he was on pie number twelve.
I was mesmerised watching him. Round and round he chewed. And then, without missing a beat, heâd take a glug of water, and start another pie. It actually made me feel quite sick.
âTHREE MINUTES TO GO!â shouted Thelmaâs dad.
And thatâs when disaster struck.
Stan was in the lead on pie 13, when his jaw suddenly stopped. It just froze, like someone had turned off the power.
âCome on, Stan!â boomed Thelma. âWhat are you doing?â
But Stan was stuck. Well and truly. His mouth was full of pie, but there was definitely a malfunction somewhere.
I gulped. Now was definitely not the time to own up about the screws.
âDo something, Billy!â thundered Thelma.
But what could I do? The rules were clear. Supporters were not allowed to help. And anyway, by then it was too late.
âTwo minutes to goâ¦â
Thelma was close to tears. Stan seemed to have turned grey, and I noticed his bones were starting to show through his skin.
âGaby!â I gasped. âWhatâs happening to Stan?â
She shrugged. âI think the spell might be wearing off. I told you â that first-edition spell book isnât worth bog paper.â
âCome on,â I grabbed her arm. âI think weâd better get him out of here before he turns back into a bag of bones.â
Together, we manhandled Stan away from the table and to his wheelbarrow in the kitchen. He didnât seem too bothered. In fact he seemed quite relieved. He had a deeply contented smile on his face, as though his belly was full of pie and life felt pretty darn good.
We raced back into the shop just in time to see Kelly the Belly leave the table. She was quitting at pie 13. There were just three of them left: Charlie Pittam, The Australian Growler and, the biggest shocker of all, Grant the pie chef.
âThirty seconds to go.â
âThe Ozzieâs out!â gasped Gabby, as the khaki bloke stood up with a face the colour of his shirt.
Charlie and Grant were neck and neck on pie 14. Theyâd both slowed down considerably. Each mouthful now looked laboured. But astonishingly it was Grant the pie chef who finished first (although he looked sick as a dog). Then, just as Grant reached for his 15th pie, he did a very silly thing. He looked over to Thelma, who was slumped in the corner, and shouted in a
Before the start of the contest, heâd been like a greyhound fighting to get out of his trap: Gaby had had to hold his arms down to stop him getting stuck into the pies. So as soon as the whistle went, he grabbed his first pie, and took an enormous bite.
Thelmaâs grin was as wide as my tool bag.
Stan chomped like crazy, pie fat running down his chin. But the others were getting stuck in, too.
âKelly the Bellyâs on pie number two,â whispered Gaby.
But Stan was holding his own. Heâd already started on his third, and was at least six mouthfuls ahead of Charlie Pittam.
I wasnât really watching the competition; I was staring at Stanâs jaw. There was something not quite right about it. And I suddenlywondered whether I should have made more of an effort to fit the spare screws in somewhere.
âThe Growlerâs on pie number five,â shrieked Thelma. âCome on, Stan!â
He didnât need much encouragement. Stan increased his pace, and by the time he got to his seventh pie, he was in the lead. But Charlie was hard on his heels.
âLook!â shouted Gaby. âGrantâs on number eight.â
I couldnât really see Grant from where I was sitting. But I didnât bother trying too hard. I knew he was no match for Stan and Charlie.
I was right.
âStanâs on number ten,â roared Thelma.
But so was Charlieâ¦
âCome on, Charlie!â screamed his moon-faced girlfriend. The encouragement worked. Charlieâs rhythmic chewing stepped up a beat and within seconds he was on pie number twelve.
I was mesmerised watching him. Round and round he chewed. And then, without missing a beat, heâd take a glug of water, and start another pie. It actually made me feel quite sick.
âTHREE MINUTES TO GO!â shouted Thelmaâs dad.
And thatâs when disaster struck.
Stan was in the lead on pie 13, when his jaw suddenly stopped. It just froze, like someone had turned off the power.
âCome on, Stan!â boomed Thelma. âWhat are you doing?â
But Stan was stuck. Well and truly. His mouth was full of pie, but there was definitely a malfunction somewhere.
I gulped. Now was definitely not the time to own up about the screws.
âDo something, Billy!â thundered Thelma.
But what could I do? The rules were clear. Supporters were not allowed to help. And anyway, by then it was too late.
âTwo minutes to goâ¦â
Thelma was close to tears. Stan seemed to have turned grey, and I noticed his bones were starting to show through his skin.
âGaby!â I gasped. âWhatâs happening to Stan?â
She shrugged. âI think the spell might be wearing off. I told you â that first-edition spell book isnât worth bog paper.â
âCome on,â I grabbed her arm. âI think weâd better get him out of here before he turns back into a bag of bones.â
Together, we manhandled Stan away from the table and to his wheelbarrow in the kitchen. He didnât seem too bothered. In fact he seemed quite relieved. He had a deeply contented smile on his face, as though his belly was full of pie and life felt pretty darn good.
We raced back into the shop just in time to see Kelly the Belly leave the table. She was quitting at pie 13. There were just three of them left: Charlie Pittam, The Australian Growler and, the biggest shocker of all, Grant the pie chef.
âThirty seconds to go.â
âThe Ozzieâs out!â gasped Gabby, as the khaki bloke stood up with a face the colour of his shirt.
Charlie and Grant were neck and neck on pie 14. Theyâd both slowed down considerably. Each mouthful now looked laboured. But astonishingly it was Grant the pie chef who finished first (although he looked sick as a dog). Then, just as Grant reached for his 15th pie, he did a very silly thing. He looked over to Thelma, who was slumped in the corner, and shouted in a
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