‘Why didn’t your dad come to the father–son breakfast?’
Every year the school had a special breakfast for fathers and sons. Every year Peter’s father never showed up.
Bruiser knew why but he enjoyed watching Peter squirm as he tried to think of an answer.
The truth was this: it had been eight years since Peter’s father had left.
Two thousand nine hundred and twenty-two days since he had decided Peter and his mum weren’t worth hanging around for.
Seventy thousand one hundred and twenty-eight hours since he had walked out the front door, leaving his muddy footprints on the carpet and a giant, father-shaped hole.
Most nights, as Peter lay in bed beneath the glow of streetlights through his curtains, he thought of his dad. He wondered what he was doing, and if he had other kids. He wondered if his dad ever thought about him and his mum, even for just a moment.
Every year on his birthday, while his mum made a special breakfast of pancakes, blackberries and extra cream, Peter would listen for the clink of the letterbox. When he heard it, his heart raced and his thoughts ran together in a jumble.
Maybe this was the year his dad would remember.
Maybe this year he’d send a present.
Maybe he’d apologise for all the other years he hadn’t been able to send presents because he’d been on great adventures all over the world, in remote locations with no posties to deliver the dozens of letters he’d written, telling Peter how special he was, and how he’d soon come back and say how wrong he was for leaving, and they’d be a family again.
Every year Peter would stand at the letterbox, take a deep breath and open the squeaky lid … only to find it full of bills and flyers for gyms or Chinese restaurants.
Every year.
This was what he thought about as Bruiser’s thick bucket head and wire brush hair leaned over him.
‘Is it because your dad left after he found out you were a loser?’
Peter stared at Bruiser’s crooked grin and did what he always did in these situations. He lied.
‘He’s a brilliant surgeon busy saving lives.’
Sometimes Peter’s dad was a firefighter, like his grandfather, other times a paramedic, but he was always a hero.
Peter knew exactly what was coming next.
What always happened.
He tensed his stomach, making it as hard as he could before Bruiser landed a punch that doubled him over and crumbled him to his knees, leaving him gasping for breath.
‘Namby-pamby.’ Bruiser chuckled and shuffled away.
Peter rolled onto his side, the hurtful word ringing in his ears.
Bruiser had called him a namby-pamby from the first day of school. The parents had been invited to the classroom as a special welcoming treat, but when it was time for them to leave, Peter had clung to his mum and cried.
He couldn’t help it. What if she never came back? What if she disappeared like his dad?
Bruiser waited for her to go before he hissed through a cruel smile, ‘Namby-pamby.’
It was an insult Bruiser used when he needed to add an extra sting to his punch. And it always worked.
When Peter was able to stand without his stomach hurting too much, he began the slow walk home.
As he approached his house, he could see his grandfather waiting inside the gate. He was out of breath and waving something in the air.
Peter walked faster, worried that something was wrong – that Grandpop was sick; his mum had been hurt or …
‘Peter, my boy, this arrived for you this morning.’ He handed over a cream-coloured envelope with swirling gold lettering, sealed with a red wax crest.
‘I’m not sure what it is.’ Grandpop Eriksson’s silver, wispy hair coiled around his head like fairy floss. His shirt was crumpled and his cardigan was buttoned all wrong, like he’d been thinking about something else while getting dressed, which often happened with Grandpop Eriksson. ‘It seems very important. I can feel it.’
Peter took the envelope. ‘What do you think it is?’
‘We won’t know until you open it, but you’ll have to be quick – my old heart can’t wait much longer.’
Peter carefully opened the letter. He stared at the words on the page.
‘It’s … it’s …’
‘Yes, yes?’
‘An invitation to …’
‘Yes?’
Peter was finding it hard to find the words, even though they were right there in front of him.
‘The Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee in London.’
‘Woo-hoo!’ Peter’s grandfather threw his fists into the air and swept his arms around his grandson, the letter squished between them. ‘I knew it was something great. I’ll call your mum. She’ll want to buy some thing on the way home to celebrate.’ He hurried down the path to the front door and cried out, ‘My grandson’s going to London!’
Peter stared at the letter. It wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for all these years, the one that may never arrive, but this one was pretty good too. As he stood on the path, a twinge of pain niggling his stomach, he smiled for the first time that day.
He was going to London.
Peter Eriksson of Dreary Lane, Wormwood, was going to London, far from Bruiser and the taunts of the kids and teachers.
Far from being a namby-pamby.
But there was something else even more important than that.
As Peter sat on his bed in his pokey bedroom, stroking Prince Harry, he said, ‘The Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee is broadcast all over the world, so maybe Dad will be watching.’
Peter could see it now. His dad would be at home, having dinner in front of the TV, and he’d recognise something in one of the kids on stage – a dimple, or the way he walked, or the stubborn curl above his forehead that he could never comb down – and maybe, just maybe, he’d know it was his son.
‘He’ll see that I’ve grown up to be someone worthwhile, maybe even a champion. Surely then he’ll come back. Don’t you think, Prince Harry?’
The crested gecko placed a foot on Peter’s cheek.
Peter snuggled him even closer and allowed himself another smile.
Maybe this time his secret birthday wish would come true.
The Wimples sat hunched over their breakfasts. The clanging of spoons into bowls and the crunch of toast was all that could be heard over their melancholy mood.
Mum slurped her tea. Normally in situations where her family was feeling blue she’d say something to cheer them up, which mums often do in families, but this morning she couldn’t, no matter how much she tried, not when her daughter was going to miss competing against the best spellers in the world.
India deserved to be there, but how could they afford to make it happen?
Nanna Flo buttered her toast, thinking the same thing, but she also wondered something else. If she hadn’t broken her wrist during a particularly enthusiastic yoga move and come to live with the Wimples, they’d have enough money for India to enter. She was sure of it.
She snuck a look at her grand-daughter, knowing this was all her fault. What kind of grandmother did that?
Boo pushed his porridge around his bowl. He wouldn’t have agreed with Nanna Flo one bit, because this was all his fault. If he didn’t have asthma, Mum would still be teaching instead of homeschooling him and they’d have more than enough money for all of them to go to London.
But, as terrible as they all felt, it was even worse for Dad.
He knew this was most definitely his fault.
If only he was the hard-hitting journalist he once was and not a handyman working for IOUs and second-hand clothes, the Wimples would be going to London. What kind of dad was he when instead of breaking tough stories he was unclogging toilets? And all while watching his daughter miss one of the most marvellous moments of her life.
Dad’s worst fear was letting his kids down, and here he was doing just that.
India glanced at her f
amily, knowing their misery was all her fault, and she was determined to cheer them up.
‘You know what? I’m okay about not going to London.’ This was one of those white lies, of course, but she desperately wanted to wipe the gloominess off their faces. ‘Really, I’m not disappointed at all.’
It didn’t work. Mostly because the Wimples knew she’d said it only to make them feel better, which made them all feel a little worse.
What a conundrum.
‘Anyone home?’ Daryl let himself in the back door. ‘Just came to say hello to Yungabilla’s newest hero.’
Daryl was in fine form, which is why it took him a little longer to realise that something was terribly wrong. He stared at the disappointed looks that swamped their faces.
‘Okay, what’s wrong?’
No-one knew how to break the news until India decided it was up to her. ‘I’m not going to London.’
‘What?!’ Daryl’s hands flew into the air. ‘Why not?’
‘The competition will pay for me and one chaperone, and I won’t go if we can’t all go.’
‘But you can’t –’
‘I’m sorry, Daryl.’ India did her best to sound firm. ‘I’ve decided and there’s no point trying to change my mind.’
‘But I think –’
‘I know you mean well,’ India interrupted, ‘but the truth is I only just made it through the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee because my family was with me. How can I possibly choose one person to fly to London with me, knowing I was getting further and further away from the others every second? I’m not going, and I won’t be talked out of it.’
India crossed her arms and tried to look as defiant as she could, which wasn’t very defiant because she wasn’t very good at that kind of thing.
A wry smile rose into Daryl’s lips. ‘And that, my dear, is one reason the Wimples are my favourite family of all time. Of course you have to go together! It would be a travesty if you didn’t!’ He pulled out a chair and sat with them. ‘Now all we have to do is come up with an ingenious way of making it happen.’
‘But how?’ Dad scratched his head. ‘We need plane tickets, hotel rooms, cab fare. We don’t have that kind of money, Daryl.’
‘Then we’ll find it.’
‘Where?’ India asked.
‘That’s what we’re about to work out.’ He pulled a notebook from his pocket.
Daryl’s enthusiasm made them all feel a little brighter.
‘You’re a good egg.’ Nanna Flo kissed him on the cheek and Daryl blushed bright red. ‘Have been ever since you were a boy.’
Over lots of cups of tea and steady servings of toast and vegemite, Daryl and the Wimples came up with an ingenious plan.
Within twenty-four hours, the people of Yungabilla were gathered in the town hall. The Country Women’s Association had set up a stall down the back, serving tea and scones with lashings of jam and cream – but NO lamingtons – while a rowdy rabble of adults, kids and animals waited their turn to be photographed.
The plan was this: volunteers would pose for the Yungabilla souvenir calendar, which would be sold online in a crowdfunding campaign that was sure to make a fortune.
Or, at the very least, send the Wimples to London.
Everyone pitched in, helping out with hair and make-up, arranging the lights and props, so that each photograph looked unique and captured the spirit of the town. Dad set up his camera on a tripod and Mum drew up the order of groups to be photographed, while Nanna Flo used a loudhailer to make sure everything ran smoothly.
‘Thank you, everyone, for supporting India on her way to London,’ Nanna’s voice boomed. ‘These calendars are going to be a roaring success or I’ll eat my boots for breakfast.’
First up was Farmer Austin, standing proudly beside Bessie, who was wearing her best winter coat and beanie with a freshly picked daisy bobbing from her ear.
Next came Mayor Bob, Mrs Wild and the kids from Yungabilla Primary School. They were dressed as Willy Wonka and the Oompa Loompas from last year’s school play.
Mrs O’Donnell posed as she was about to eat a spoonful of cheesecake beside Gracie Hubbard, who sipped a frothy milkshake. The Country Fire Authority wore bright yellow uniforms with a fire hose draped around them like a giant python. The Craft Society wore cardigans and hats they’d knitted themselves, and the local yoga club, led by Nanna Flo, demonstrated their best poses.
For the final photograph, everyone involved stood behind India and held up letters that spelled:
India Wimple Spelling Champion
Apart from Bessie scoffing down the last of the scones, it was a great success.
By the time the last of the locals left the hall, it was well past midnight. Mum and Nanna Flo had driven a sleepy Boo to bed, while Dad and India locked the hall and began to walk home.
‘Do you think it’ll work?’ India asked.
‘Of course it will,’ Dad said. ‘Who wouldn’t want to buy a Yungabilla souvenir calendar? They’ll sell so fast, all you’ll have to worry about is what to pack.’
India felt a shiver of excitement. Maybe she would be going to London after all – and she’d see Rajish.
Her stomach flipped. Not in that nervous, nauseous way that used to happen to India, but like a butterfly had been let loose in her stomach and was flapping its wings like crazy.
As if Dad had been reading her mind, he said, ‘And you’ll see Rajish again.’
‘Who?’ India turned to Dad so quickly that she almost tripped.
‘Rajish.’ Dad caught her by the arm. ‘You know, from the last Spelling Bee.’
India hoped the darkness meant Dad couldn’t see her cheeks, which she knew would be fiery red.
‘Oh, that Rajish.’
‘How many boys called Rajish do you know?’
‘I … we …’ India was desperate to change the subject. ‘You did a great job with the photographs today.’
‘Thanks.’ Dad wrapped one arm around India’s shoulders. ‘It was fun to get behind the camera again. It reminded me how much I enjoyed it.’
Dad used to work at the local newspaper before it shut down.
‘Do you miss being a journalist?’
He nodded. ‘I worked on a couple of really interesting stories.’
‘Some great ones,’ India agreed. ‘Like when Yungabilla hosted the National Vanilla Slice Competition, or when the Tivoli sisters turned one hundred and celebrated by skinny dipping in the lake.’
Dad laughed. ‘They caused quite a stir.’ He stared off into the distance. ‘Some things aren’t meant to last, I guess.’
India knew Dad didn’t quite believe that. ‘But you were so good at it.’
Now it was Dad’s turn to change the subject. ‘Race you home?’
And before India could answer, he was away.
‘Hey! Not fair, you got a head start.’
And with that, they ran through the quiet, lamplit streets of Yungabilla, all the way home.
When the calendars arrived, they were glossy and colourful, and everyone was convinced they were going to be a huge hit.
Boo put the final touches on the crowdfunding campaign before launching it into the world. All they had to do now was sit back and wait for the orders and donations to roll in. Daryl and the Wimples raised glasses of orange juice to toast its success.
But after ten days the total amount raised inched up to just four hundred dollars, which wasn’t nearly enough to get them to London. Boo knew they needed another angle to make it go national.
Early one Saturday morning, while Nanna was at yoga, and Dad was rebuilding Elsie’s chicken coop after her goat rammed it to pieces, and Mum was delivering Meals on Wheels, Boo knew he had his chance.
He was never allowed out of the house unless he was with someone, not because there was anything to worry about in Yungabilla – it was as safe a town as you could ever visit – but mostly it was so he wasn’t alone if he had another asthma flare-up.
Boo going any
where would usually make Mum quite nervous. There’d be lots of questions about where he was going and when he’d be back, until she decided it would be better if she went with him. Boo knew this was Mum’s way of taking care of him, but this morning there wasn’t time for any of that.
After a quick phone call, he poked his head into India’s room. ‘We have to go.’
She looked up from her dictionary. ‘Where?’
‘You’ll see. Come on or we’ll be late.’ Boo knew he couldn’t tell India what he was planning or she’d never agree to go.
Within minutes they were walking down Main Street towards the Yungabilla Community Hub. The Hub housed the council offices, post office and the Yungabilla Tourist Information Centre, all run by Mrs Rahim.
Boo pushed open the glass doors. Mrs Rahim at the counter greeted them with a smile. ‘You can go right in. He’s waiting for you.’
‘He who?’ India asked.
‘You’ll find out.’ Boo strode down the corridor to the end of the building and stopped in front of a door with a sign that read:
Radio Yungabilla
The Sweet Sounds of the Country,
with Ian ‘Hendo’ Henderson
India froze. ‘It’s Hendo.’
Hendo was a radio host her parents had listened to since she was a kid. His show was heard all over the country. Hendo was famous.
‘Yep, and he wants to talk to you.’
‘Me?’ India was about to launch into all the reasons why this was a bad idea when Boo put his fingers to his lips and opened the door to the radio booth.
Hendo wore headphones and sat in front of a computer and a desk filled with buttons. He leaned into his microphone and waved them in to take a seat.
‘And that was Dora Williams singing an old favourite, “I Love You More Than I love My Ute”.’
Boo and India sat opposite.
‘Now we’re in for a special treat,’ Hendo said. ‘Each year, the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee finds Australia’s best speller, and the current champion is Yungabilla’s very own India Wimple. I’m lucky to have India and her brother, Boo, here in the studio. Welcome to Radio Yungabilla.’
The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery Page 3