India said nothing so Boo spoke for both of them. ‘Thanks for having us, Hendo.’
‘India, after winning the Bee, how does it feel to be invited to London to compete with the world’s best?’
Boo nudged India gently. ‘Good,’ she managed. ‘How’s the preparation going? You studying that dictionary?’
‘Yes,’ she answered.
Hendo waited for her to say more. ‘I hear there might be a bit of a hitch to competing.’
It was at this point that Boo took over. ‘It’s a great honour to be part of the international bee, Hendo, but we need to raise money to get there. We’ve started a crowdfunding page where people can donate whatever they can, but anyone who gives more than fifteen dollars will receive a Yungabilla souvenir calendar.’
‘Now there’s a deal you can’t resist, listeners. My fifteen dollars bought me my own copy, and it really is something. I donated a photo of me sitting on my 1954 John Deere tractor. Do you think you’ll reach your goal?’
‘We have to!’ Boo cried. ‘India deserves to be there. She’s one of the smartest people I know. And the kindest.’
‘Your sister’s pretty special.’
Boo thought of all the times India had woken up next to him or rushed to his side whenever he coughed, and how she nearly gave up her spot in the Spelling Bee Grand Final when he wasn’t well. ‘She’s the best sister a brother could have … Sorry to all the other sisters out there.’
Hendo laughed. ‘Well, that’s good enough for me. So what do you say, listeners? Your fifteen dollars will get you a calendar and help send Australia’s spelling champion to London. India, we wish you all the best and know you’ll make our country proud.’
Boo spent the rest of the day hovering over Mum’s phone, waiting for the donations to roll in.
The hours ticked by. Little by little, the total increased. When night fell, Dad poked his head into Boo’s room. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Getting there. Slowly.’
Dad saw a flicker of disappointment on Boo’s face before he turned back to the screen.
Much later, when India crept into Boo’s room, as she often did, she found him asleep still clutching the phone. She carefully slid it from his fingers and placed it on his bedside table.
When she tiptoed back to her room, she saw a small glow through her curtains. It was coming from the shed – inside was Dad. The light from his computer made his face look ghostly pale. He slumped forward and cradled his head in his hands.
India slipped into her sneakers and crept outside across the yard. She peeked inside the shed and saw the table covered in papers.
‘You’re up late.’
Dad flinched, surprised to hear a voice in the darkness. ‘You too.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
Dad held out his arm and India slipped into his hug. ‘You okay?’
India nodded. ‘What are they?’
Dad shuffled the papers into a messy pile. ‘Nothing important.’
India could tell that wasn’t true and that they were in fact very important.
‘Nice try, Dad, but I’ve known you for over eleven years – you’re not good at fibbing.’
‘You got me, Detective Wimple.’ Dad offered a weak smile. ‘I’ve been writing articles and stories ever since the paper shut down. I send them to news agencies all over the country, and they send me these rejections.’
India pulled one from the top. ‘Dear Mr Wimple,’ she read aloud. ‘Thank you for submitting your article. Unfortunately, the subject of your story isn’t interesting enough for our readers.’
India frowned and read another. ‘Dear Mr Wimple. Whilst we like your style, your piece isn’t quite right for our website.’
India wanted to shout at them all. ‘They’re wrong.’
‘Wrong or not,’ Dad said, ‘they don’t want me to write for them.’ He took the rejection letters and put them in a box beside him. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’
India nodded.
‘Working at the paper was the only thing I ever felt really good at.’ He sighed. ‘But maybe even that’s not true.’
‘It is true!’ India cried. ‘Plus, you’re good at lots of things.’
Dad held up his bandaged thumb. ‘Really? Tell that to Elsie’s goat.’
‘Okay, there’s the occasional accident, but what about being the best dad in the world?’
Dad laughed. ‘I’m not sure even that’s true.’
‘It is for me! You’ve read stories to Boo and me every night since we were babies, and you tell the best dad jokes when we’re sad.’
Dad looked down. ‘But I can’t get you to London.’
India snuggled closer. ‘I don’t need to go. I like being here with you in Yungabilla. Can you read me some of your stories?’
Dad shook his head. ‘They’re no good, India.’
‘Please?’
Dad couldn’t refuse India’s pleading look. ‘All right,’ he said, taking a story from the pile, ‘but don’t complain when you realise the rejection letters are right.’
India listened intently as Dad read. He was nervous at first and kept tripping over his words, but as he read he became more confident.
And the story was good! Very good. It had everything India wanted in a story: vivid details, clever twists and interesting characters with big hearts, and it kept her fascinated till the very end.
‘Can you read another?’
‘You’re not just being nice?’
‘As a dedicated bookworm, I know a good story when I hear one, and I’d like another, please.’
Dad read to India by the light of the computer – stories about small heroic acts, people overcoming tragedy, and scientific discoveries that could change the world. India never wanted them to end.
Just as Dad was about to read another, they heard a cry from the house. They knew instantly who it was.
‘Boo.’ India felt her skin turn to ice.
Dad threw his story aside and they raced from the shed and across the yard. He yanked open the screen door and hurried into Boo’s room. ‘Are you okay?’
Boo was sitting up in bed. He was panting and his eyes were wide. ‘I …’
Mum flew through the door and took the spacer from his bedside table. ‘Is it another flare-up?’
‘I …’
Nanna Flo rushed to Boo’s side and rubbed his back, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll have you better in no time.’
‘It’s not a flare-up,’ Boo cried.
The Wimples stopped their fussing.
‘It isn’t?’ India asked.
‘Nope.’ The phone was in Boo’s lap. ‘We’ve had a few more donations.’
‘How many more?’ Dad asked.
‘Quite a few.’ Boo wore a cheeky smile.
Nanna Flo was almost too scared to ask. ‘How much do we have?’
Boo paused to build up the suspense. ‘Eleven thousand three hundred and forty-six dollars.’
The Wimples stared at Boo as his words sank in.
‘But that’s more than our goal,’ Mum realised.
‘How?’ India worried she was in one of those dreams where something happens that you really want to happen, but in the end you’re disappointed because it’s only a dream.
‘Hendo put the interview on his Facebook page and it’s been shared over one thousand times. People from all over Australia have donated. Even from overseas.’
‘That means …’ Mum could hardly believe it was true.
‘Yep!’ Boo gleamed with delight. ‘We are going to London.’
Dad ruffled Boo’s hair. ‘You are officially a genius.’
‘It was a team effort.’ Boo nodded.
‘That’s the Wimple spirit for you,’ Nanna Flo said. ‘There’s no stopping us.’
Dad jumped up from the bed and whisked India into the air. ‘We’re going to London!’ He swirled her around while the others ducked. ‘The Wimple family is going to London!�
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All around the world, contestants from the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee were staying up late and waking early, practising every chance they could. They read dictionaries, held mock spelling bees and watched past competitions online. They even dreamed about spelling.
Time flew, as it often does, and soon the day of departure finally arrived.
In Toronto, Canada, Holly straightened her dress and gave herself one last look in the mirror. ‘You can do this, Holly Trifle.’
Holly often did this. Because her family never seemed interested, she was her own cheer squad, along with Grandma Trifle, who often sent her emails and cards. And even though it felt lonely having a cheer squad of two, it helped when she felt nervous.
Maybe today, though, her parents would be excited. Maybe they’d have words of support – words of wisdom and love. After all, it wasn’t every day your daughter was invited to compete in an international competition, seen by millions around the world.
Today was a monumental day.
Today would be different.
Today her parents would finally be on her side.
‘Molly!’ Mrs Trifle shouted from the driveway below. ‘We’re leaving without you if you don’t get down here now.’
Or maybe not.
Holly tried to give herself another cheer squad smile, but this time it didn’t work. She picked up her bag and walked downstairs to the car.
Gertrude stared open-mouthed at her half-sister. ‘What are you wearing?’
Benedict laughed. ‘Is it one of Mum’s tablecloths?’
Holly brushed down her dress protectively. ‘Grandma Trifle sent it to me.’
‘Who?’ Gertrude asked.
‘Grandma Trifle.’
‘I thought she was dead.’
‘She’s not dead,’ Holly insisted, her chin wobbling slightly. ‘She lives in Ottawa.’
Gertrude gave a petulant sneer, annoyed that no-one had bothered to tell her. ‘News to me.’
‘She must be old.’ Benedict’s face lit up. ‘Maybe I should be nice to her so she’ll leave me money when she does die.’
‘I wouldn’t bother.’ Mrs Trifle waved her hand. ‘She’s as poor as a church mouse. Her house actually smells of mice, if I remember, but it’s a few years since I’ve been there.’
‘It smells fine,’ Holly said defensively.
Holly often spent school holidays with Grandma Trifle while the rest of the Trifles were busy running the business. It was true that Grandma didn’t have much money, but her house was cosy and warm and always smelled of baked chicken or apple pie. Never mice.
‘Anyway, you can’t go out in that dress.’ Mrs Trifle spread hot-pink lipstick on her pouting lips. ‘It looks like the cat coughed up a fur ball and dragged it through some paint.’
Mr Trifle was loading multiple suitcases and boxes into the boot of the car. ‘I think the dress looks nice.’
‘It’s awful,’ Mrs Trifle corrected him.
‘I like it.’ Holly felt as if she were actually shrinking, which was something that often happened around her family.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Mrs Trifle really had no idea.
‘I just thought –’
‘Save your thoughts for spelling. People judge you by how you look, and if you wear that they’ll think you’re a homeless child with parents who don’t care.’
Holly looked down at her dress. She liked the bright red flowers and the careful way Grandma had sewn orange buttons on each pocket. It was one of her favourite dresses, partly because the colours made her feel happy, but mostly because it had been given to her on her tenth birthday, which only Grandma remembered.
Mrs Trifle stared at her reflection in the side mirror of the car and dabbed at the corners of her shiny lips. ‘This family prides itself on how we present ourselves to the world, and I won’t have you embarrassing us with that homemade sack. Now hurry to your room and change or we’ll miss our flight.’
Holly knew there was no point arguing. ‘Yes, Mum,’ she said, doing exactly as she was told, just as she always did.
In her room, she folded Grandma’s dress into a neat square and tucked it carefully into her bottom drawer. ‘I’ll make you proud, Grandma. I promise.’
In Wormwood, England, Mrs Eriksson stood on the footpath with her son and father, waiting anxiously for a cab. ‘And do you have your train ticket?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Peter was nervous too, but he tried to sound calm so he wouldn’t worry his mother even more.
‘And your toothbrush?’
‘Got it.’
‘I should get you more underwear. You can never have enough underwear.’
She was about to turn back inside when Peter said. ‘We’ll be fine, Mum. If we need anything we’ll get it in London.’
Mrs Eriksson held her son’s cheeks. ‘I’m so proud of you, Peter. Have I told you that?’
‘About ten times this morning.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t come with you. It’s a busy time at the warehouse.’
‘We’ll be fine.’
Peter turned to Grandpop, who was looking at the house as if all he wanted to do was run back inside and shut the door against the world. Grandpop hadn’t been out much since Grandma died three years ago. The few times he did venture out, he’d had panic attacks, and Peter and his mum had to rescue him and bring him home. He was a tall man, who had a spark in his eye, but losing Grandma had made his shoulders hunch and took away that spark; he’d become quiet and withdrawn.
Peter knew Grandpop was scared about going to London, but when he’d asked him to be his chaperone, he agreed instantly, which made Peter love him even more.
They stood together on the footpath, all feeling a little afraid. Mrs Eriksson worried about them being so far away, Grandpop worried he’d have one of his turns and not be able to breathe, and Peter worried if they didn’t leave soon he’d never get away.
He had to be strong for all of them.
‘We’ll be okay, won’t we, Grandpop?’
Peter’s question seemed to wake the old man up. He looked at his grandson’s eager face. ‘Yeah,’ he said a little shakily before adding, ‘of course we will.’
Luckily, at that moment, the cab pulled into the street.
Mrs Eriksson hugged her son one last time. ‘Are you sure you have enough underwear?’
‘I have everything I need,’ Peter said, even though it wasn’t quite true. He loved his mum and his grandad, but there were two things he wanted more than anything: for the bullying to stop, and for his dad to come back. ‘I’ll make you proud, Mum.’
Unfortunately, what was supposed to make her feel better only made her cry. She hugged him tighter. ‘You always do.’
Peter sent Grandpop a rescue me look.
‘We’d better go, Maggie,’ Grandpop said, ‘or we’ll miss our train.’
Peter waved to his mum as they drove away, past the tired buildings, the broken fences and the bins lying on the footpath.
He would never, ever tell his mum, but leaving made him feel light and happy. For seven whole days he wouldn’t be picked on or punched or called a namby-pamby. For seven whole days he’d be far away from it all.
It was going to be monumental.
In Yungabilla, Australia, Boo and India crouched outside their parents’ bedroom door. Mum had been nervous for weeks about their trip, and the day of their departure was no better.
‘London is a big city,’ she told Dad, ‘which means more pollution and asthma triggers, so we have to be prepared.’
When it came to Boo’s asthma, Mum was always prepared, but that didn’t stop her being anxious.
‘He’ll be fine.’ Dad was doing his best to calm her down. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Just like last time?’ Mum snapped.
India flinched. Mum never snapped at Dad.
By ‘last time’, she meant Boo’s asthma flare-up before the Spelling Bee Grand Final – the one that sent him to h
ospital and they thought he might not survive.
Dad remembered it well. He sometimes still had nightmares about it.
‘Being somewhere new can trigger an asthma attack, or dust mites in pillows or changes in temperature. What if it happens again?’
The Wimples had lived with these questions since Boo was young: What if the next asthma flare-up was even worse? What if they weren’t prepared? What if he didn’t make it?
Dad’s voice was gentle and reassuring. ‘The hotel in London has sent me details of the nearest hospital, doctor and chemist. We have Boo’s medical records and his medication. The moment he doesn’t feel well, the Wimples will be there.’
Boo slowly got up and tiptoed back to his room.
India followed and sat on his bed beside him. ‘I’ve never heard her so worried.’
‘She doesn’t need to be,’ Boo said in frustration. ‘I have my asthma plan and inhaler, and Dr Fiona said I’m fine to travel.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not a baby anymore, India.’
‘I’m sorry if we’re a bit over the top sometimes.’
‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Anything,’ India said.
‘I want to go back to school.’
‘Have you told Mum?’
‘No, but she misses being a real teacher, and I’m old enough to take care of myself.’
‘She won’t like it.’
‘And I want to get a dog.’
‘She’s definitely not going to like that.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll help.’
India felt her shoulders tense as she imagined Boo playing soccer on the grassy field at school, or running in the park with a dog – then bent over and struggling for breath.
For years India had said no to parties and sleepovers, not because she didn’t want to go; she didn’t want to be away from Boo.
In case.
Those two words looked so innocent, but for the Wimple family they meant so much.
What Boo was asking really was monumental. But India knew he was right. It was time they all let him grow up.
‘I promise I’ll help.’
The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery Page 4