The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery

by Deborah Abela

  It worked, India thought. The Wimple friendship advice worked. ‘Do you want to go in together?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  And, just like that, Holly Trifle and India Wimple both made a new friend, and they entered the Imperial Dining Hall for the opening of the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee.

  Walking into the Imperial Dining Hall erased any unpleasantness Holly and India had just experienced. Hundreds of lights dangled from the roof and were fashioned into the shape of letters, while the walls were lit with moving words of all sizes, revolving over the surface like a mirror ball, giving the effect of being inside the pages of a glowing, revolving dictionary.

  Wondrous.

  Extraordinary.

  Fantabulous.

  Holly and India burst into giddy smiles.

  In the centre of the hall, rows of banquet tables shimmered with candles and bouquets of white letters bloomed from vases, but what caught India and Holly’s attention next were the tables of crystal cake stands piled with cupcakes, each with a chocolate letter nestled on swirls of colourful icing.

  Holly felt her knees weaken. ‘Mum and Dad would never let me eat those.’

  ‘Yes,’ said India with a cheeky grin, ‘but they’re not here, are they?’

  ‘I guess one wouldn’t hurt.’ Holly chose a plump cupcake with pink, creamy icing topped with the letter H. Her cheeks bulged after her first mouthful and she smiled in delight.

  ‘It’ll be our secret.’ India bit into her own. ‘Oh no.’ Beside them, a boy stared down at his shirt, which was now covered in splodges of ruby-red icing.

  ‘This often happens,’ he explained. ‘It’s like food jumps out at me, no matter how careful I am.’

  India handed him a serviette, but it only spread the mess further across his chest. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Does anyone know if these letters are Belgian chocolate?’

  It was Summer. Of course.

  ‘I only eat Belgian chocolate.’ She noticed the boy’s stained shirt and stepped back in case her brand-new dress became smudged too.

  ‘I had a small accident.’ He wanted to get rid of the look of horror on Summer’s face. ‘I’m Peter.’ He held out his hand, until he remembered it was also smeared with icing.

  Rajish ran in, puffing. ‘Oh good, it hasn’t started.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ India asked.

  ‘Mum went to the art gallery so Dad decided to cram in some spelling practice. I only just got away.’

  India thought she saw something move beneath Peter’s jacket. Growing up in the country, creatures often crept into unexpected places. The Wimples had found snakes in wardrobes, mice in shoes and spiders under the toilet seat, so she said calmly, ‘I don’t want to worry you, but I think there might be an animal in your pocket.’

  Peter smiled. ‘That’s Prince Harry.’ He opened his jacket and out poked the head of what looked like a miniature dragon with feathery yellow spines running down his back and head. ‘He’s my crested gecko, loyal friend and fellow traveller. He’s trying to tell me it’s dinnertime.’

  Peter took a cricket from his other pocket and fed it to Prince Harry.

  Summer wasn’t sure what horrified her most – the reptile or the fact that she’d just seen it eat a bug. ‘You brought a lizard to the Spelling Bee?’

  ‘He’s very tame.’ Peter held him out. ‘You can pat him if you like.’

  Summer reeled back. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Can I?’ Holly and India asked at the same time.

  ‘Me too,’ Rajish said.

  Prince Harry arched his back, enjoying all the attention.

  ‘They were discovered in New Caledonia in 1866 and were thought to be extinct until they were found again in 1994,’ Peter said. ‘We’re lucky he’s even here.’

  ‘Are we?’ Summer wasn’t so convinced.

  ‘My dear, champion spellers,’ Mr O’Malley announced, beaming like a beacon of happiness at the front of the room. ‘It is time to begin.’ He stood in front of a grand fireplace, beneath a portrait of the Queen. Peter slipped Prince Harry back into his pocket.

  ‘As you know, I am Mr Elwood O’Malley, the Queen’s royal representative for the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee.’

  There was a spontaneous round of applause.

  ‘It is one of the greatest honours of my life to be here on behalf of Her Majesty and to be in the company of the world’s most masterful spellers. You are about to experience some of the most remarkable days of your life. The competition will provide moments of exhilaration and apprehension, and create new and treasured friendships and memories that will linger in your hearts forever.’

  Mr O’Malley’s effervescence washed over the room. It swept India up in a wave of excitement, while Holly clung onto every word.

  Mr O’Malley took a hanky from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.

  ‘Is he crying?’ Summer frowned.

  ‘I think so,’ India said.

  ‘But before that,’ he sniffed, ‘it is imperative that you become acquainted with one another. Please turn to the people closest to you and take three minutes each to share a little about yourself, including your favourite word. The person nearest to me will begin.’ Mr O’Malley gave the groups time to form and held up his watch. ‘Your time starts now.’

  Summer swished her blonde locks over her shoulders. ‘My name is Summer Millicent Ern–’

  ‘Actually, Summer,’ India interrupted, ‘Peter is first.’

  ‘Oh.’ Summer was a bit miffed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘My name is Peter,’ he began shakily, ‘but most people call me Chubby. I’m ten and live in Wormwood, England, with my mum and Grandpop. My dad left a few years after I was born, but I’ve always thought if he’d stuck around a bit longer he might have found I was fun to be with.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I was being picked on at school until Mrs Wrenshaw, the librarian, thought going to the library at lunchtime might help, but I said, “No offence, I wouldn’t be seen dead in the library.” She told me to come anyway, and I’m glad I did – there was this whole world of books and reading I’d never known before. That’s why I love words so much – they rescued me from being bullied and now they’re the reason I’m here, meeting all of you.’

  He paused. The others stared, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve said too much, haven’t I?’ Peter’s head fell, looking as if he’d just failed a test. ‘It’s like I have a permanent case of logorrhea.’

  Holly hadn’t heard of the word before but knew ‘logos’ meant word and ‘rhea’ meant flow. ‘Talking too much?’ she guessed.

  Peter nodded. ‘It happens when I’m nervous.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Peter,’ India said.

  ‘It is?’ No-one had ever told him that before.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Holly said. ‘Words rescued me too. Gave me somewhere to escape from my parents.’

  ‘But you haven’t told us your favourite word,’ Rajish added.

  ‘That’s tricky.’ Peter thought hard. ‘Maybe borborygmus. It’s the rumbling sound that comes from an empty stomach. I also get hungry when I’m nervous.’

  ‘I like gremlin,’ Rajish said, ‘which is what Roald Dahl called the small creatures he thought were messing with the planes he flew during the war.’

  ‘My favourite Dahl word is biffsquiggled,’ Summer added, ‘which he uses when the BFG feels confused.’

  ‘I get biffsquiggled quite a lot,’ Peter admitted.

  ‘I like serendipity,’ India said. ‘I love kerfuffle and rumpus and bafflegab,’ Holly said, unable to choose just one.

  ‘I also like flibbertigibbet,’ Peter said. ‘Onomatopoeia and triskaidekaphobia, which is fear of the number thirteen.’

  ‘Who would be scared of a number?’ Summer asked.

  ‘People who have triskaidekaphobia,’ Peter answered with a knowing grin.

  They all laughed at once, like they were thinking the same thing.

 
And that made them laugh even more.

  Peter felt braver. It was the first time ever that he was surrounded by a group of children who weren’t laughing at him but with him.

  And he liked it.

  ‘And that’s how Daryl saved a busload of school kids from being swept into the floodwaters of Yungabilla Creek.’

  Dinner was being served in the Imperial Dining Hall, and Dad had been telling stories he’d written when he was a journalist.

  ‘That was very exciting, Mr Wimple.’ Mrs Kapoor was especially impressed. ‘You have a real talent for storytelling.’

  ‘She is only speaking the truth!’ Mr Kapoor was equally impressed.

  ‘He’s one of the best.’ India shared a smile with Dad.

  ‘Can you tell us another story?’ Peter asked.

  Dad was about to launch into one more when he was interrupted by the Trifles. Still wearing their black tracksuits and bright yellow trainers, they stood out like seals in a pod of pelicans.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Molly.’ Mrs Trifle sat beside her daughter. She took off one of her shoes and began rubbing her foot, which she’d plonked on the table. ‘We’ve been run off our feet today.’

  ‘But it was worth it.’ Mr Trifle sat beside his wife and bit into a bread roll. ‘We’ve signed up lots of new recruits, all champing at the bit to have new butts and guts.’

  A team of waiters approached the table, all expertly balancing plates of food. One waiter leaned over to serve them. ‘Chicken Kiev with roast potatoes and gravy or spaghetti Napolitana with parmesan?’

  Mrs Trifle waved him off. ‘Heavens no – are you trying to harden my arteries? I’d like poached chicken with quinoa and Asian greens. Pronto. I’m starving.’

  If the waiter was annoyed by Mrs Trifle’s rudeness, he didn’t show it. ‘And for you, sir?’

  Mr Trifle opened his mouth, but Mrs Trifle answered for him. ‘He’ll have the same, won’t you, dear?’

  Mr Trifle stared at the plates of chicken Kiev and pasta as they sailed away from him and were placed in front of the others. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Holly whispered to her mother. ‘So that means you can relax now and stop handing out –’

  ‘We’re going to make a killing out of this lot.’ Mrs Trifle hadn’t even noticed she’d begun speaking.

  Holly desperately needed to change the subject. ‘These are my new friends,’ she blurted out. ‘And their families.’

  ‘Friends? Really?’ Even though Mrs Trifle had suggested that her daughter make a friend, she was surprised it had actually happened.

  Holly looked around nervously, wondering if she’d spoken too soon.

  ‘Yes, we are friends,’ India declared. ‘My name is India, and this is Summer, Rajish and –’

  ‘Chubby.’ Mrs Trifle’s eyes landed on Peter, who sat beside her daughter.

  ‘No.’ Holly wore an anxious smile. ‘His name is Peter.’

  Mrs Trifle slipped her shoe back on, took her foot off the table and affected an air of concern. ‘Do kids tease you about being chubby?’

  The entire table stopped eating, and Holly felt as if a small part inside her was actually breaking. ‘Mum, I don’t think Peter wants to …’

  Mr and Mrs Trifle didn’t hear Holly’s protests. Instead, they leaned in like lions creeping up on a small, defenceless animal.

  ‘Don’t you dream of being like the other kids?’ Mr Trifle asked.

  Peter stopped eating his Kiev. His grandfather gave him a small look to see if he was okay.

  Holly wished the floor would open up and swallow her parents whole, but luckily it didn’t have to, because India’s dad got in first.

  ‘We’re the Wimples. These are the Kapoors and Mr Eriksson, Peter’s grandfather.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Mrs Trifle said, sounding like she didn’t mean a word of it.

  Holly whispered to Peter, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Peter pushed his barely touched meal away. His hands clenched into a tight ball in his lap. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, trying to be as convincing as possible.

  But Holly could see that it did matter. It mattered very much.

  Suddenly, a waiter pouring water accidentally spilled some on Mrs Trifle’s tracksuit.

  ‘You imbecile!’ Mrs Trifle dabbed her suit with a serviette. ‘Look what you’ve done – I’m soaked!’

  He offered her a napkin but she waved him away. ‘I’m so sorry, madam.’

  India thought the waiter didn’t look very sorry at all. In fact, she saw the smallest smidgen of a smile as he moved to serve another table.

  ‘Mr Wimple was telling us stories about when he was young.’ Mr Kapoor hoped to get the attention off the Trifles.

  ‘I’ve got a good story.’ Mr Trifle sat back in his chair. ‘I remember when I won Ironman Canada. Came first, beating all the younger competitors.’

  ‘You were marvellous that day, my dear.’ Mrs Trifle laid a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘In fact, that is when I fell in love with him. He was holding the trophy, being applauded by thousands, and I knew he’d be the perfect partner – in marriage and in business.’

  Mrs Trifle stared pointedly at Peter, whose head was lowered and seemed not to be listening to a word. ‘You could be strong and lean one day, Peter.’

  Peter glanced up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My grandson is fine the way he is.’ Grandpop put a protective hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, but we can all improve.’ Mrs Trifle was miffed that she had to state the painfully obvious.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Mr Trifle rolled up his sleeve and flexed. ‘You could have muscles like these.’

  Holly wished it was just a bad dream and not her actual father showing his actual muscles during dinner.

  ‘They are … prodigious.’ Peter wasn’t sure what else to say.

  Mr and Mrs Trifle swapped puzzled looks. Having never heard the word prodigious before, they wondered if it was a compliment or if Peter didn’t understand how enormous they really were.

  Holly was in agony. Why did she ever come? It wasn’t even that her parents were trying to embarrass her – it came naturally to them.

  ‘Hard work – that’s what it is.’ Thankfully, Mr Trifle rolled down his sleeve. ‘You don’t get guns like this without a lot of effort.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Peter barely mumbled.

  ‘A boy your age should be looking after his health and keeping fit. You want to be a hit with the ladies, right?’

  ‘Codswallop!’ Nanna Flo dropped her knife and fork with a great clatter. It was safe to say she’d had enough. ‘What you look like has absolutely diddly squat with who you are and why someone might like you.’

  A smile slithered into Mrs Trifle’s lips, giving her a look that could only be described as condescending. It took all Nanna Flo’s resolve not to tip more water over her.

  ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Florence Wimple.’

  ‘Florence, I don’t mean to be rude –’

  ‘Really? Because you’re about the rudest person I’ve ever met. We’re here to celebrate these kids and all you’ve done is criticise them and talk about yourselves. And I, for one, have had a gutful.’

  There was a brief, awkward silence where no-one knew what to say next, until Grandpop Eriksson spoke up.

  ‘Florence is right,’ he said quietly. ‘These kids deserve our support. You two would benefit from working on your manners as well as your muscles.’

  Peter was impressed. He’d never heard Grandpop say anything he thought would make a fuss.

  Mrs Kapoor patted her husband’s portly belly. ‘Even those of us who aren’t athletes are most definitely adorable.’

  Mrs Kapoor landed a particularly loud kiss on her husband’s cheek.

  Mrs Trifle wasn’t quite sure how she and her husband could be telling the truth and yet have everyone at the table disagree with them. ‘If young children can learn from what we’ve achieved in our lives, then it’s a crime for
us not to impart our wisdom.’

  ‘Wisdom?’ Nanna Flo’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d call it a steaming pile of poppycock!’

  India and Boo stifled giggles. Mum and Dad couldn’t help it either, which set off the Erikssons and the Kapoors, until a ripple of chuckles spread around the table.

  Mrs Trifle stood firm. ‘That’s what they may think in New Zealand, but in Canada we believe that –’

  ‘We’re from Australia,’ Boo interrupted.

  Mrs Trifle shivered as if someone had dropped cold water on her – again. ‘Australia? I don’t know how you can live there – all those spiders, snakes and sharks … The place is crawling with animals that can kill you. You wouldn’t get me there for all the tea in India.’

  ‘India?’ Mr Trifle scoffed. ‘Wouldn’t catch me there either – curry gives me the runs.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else that gives me the runs …’ Nanna Flo mumbled.

  Mr Kapoor held a finger in the air. ‘India is a very fine nation. It is the cradle of the human race, the birthplace of language, the –’

  ‘In fact,’ Mr Trifle continued, oblivious to how offensive he was being, ‘a friend of mine was so sick after travelling to India that he was on the toilet for –’

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen and spelling champions.’ Mr O’Malley thankfully saved them from any more of Mr Trifle’s unfortunate toilet story. ‘Welcome to the official opening of the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee.’

  The crowd burst into fevered applause, everyone except for Holly, who looked as she did when India first saw her: small, alone and terribly miserable.

  ‘Congratulations on being chosen for the world’s most prestigious spelling competition.’ Mr O’Malley’s face radiated a rosy glow as his words flowed through the hall. ‘You are the crème de la crème of spelling aficion ados, and of that you should be exceedingly proud.’

  This time there was no stopping the cheers and whistling as proud adults applauded and kids wriggled in their seats with excitement.

  ‘Before the Bee commences, we have a few surprises in store, including a splendacious treat tomorrow that will enchant and amaze.’ Mr O’Malley paused for effect. ‘And may even change your life.’