The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery Read online

  This is called a white lie – a small, harmless untruth that is sometimes told to protect a person’s feelings or make someone feel better. The Wimples knew it wouldn’t be so simple, and Dad had only said it to cheer India up.

  Long after the house had settled into sleep, India rolled over in bed. Boo’s nightlight in the hall cast a warm glow over everything.

  One of the best days of her life had quickly became one of the most difficult. How was she supposed to choose? How could she pick Mum over Dad, or leave Nanna Flo behind?

  And what about Boo?

  Every night since Mum and Dad had brought him home from hospital when he was born, India had always been across the hall from him. She’d sometimes sneak into his room and watch his chest rise and fall, or even wake on the floor beside his bed, not remembering how she’d got there.

  She’d never in her whole life been far from him, and now she faced being whole continents away.

  There were so many words to describe how she felt.

  Disheartened.

  Despairing.

  Desolate.

  She looked at her bedside clock, which was something she did a lot when she felt anxious. Mum sometimes said if she counted the seconds as they passed, her eyes would slowly close and she would fall into a deep sleep – that or count sheep – but it wasn’t working.

  That’s when she heard Boo cough.

  As always, India threw back her blankets and flew to Boo’s room, ready to take out his inhaler and make sure he followed the right steps to avoid a full-blown asthma flare-up, but as she stood above him, Boo snuffled sleepily, rolled over and settled back into a peaceful sleep.

  And that’s when it became clear: she couldn’t leave Boo behind. How was she supposed to protect him when she was so far away?

  That was it. She wasn’t going to London.

  Not without him.

  As soon as she decided this, she felt lighter and heavier at the same time – lighter because she wouldn’t have to leave her family, but a sadness also sank into her, weighing her down.

  A single tear rolled down her cheek and she tiptoed back to her room.

  From her small bed in Yungabilla, she stared through the window at the night sky bespangled with stars. She wondered what it would have been like to fly to England, to see Big Ben and the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace – or even the Queen herself. She knew about the city’s famous landmarks because she’d studied them in school, and she had this feeling they would be even more spectacular in real life.

  And there was something else.

  Something she hadn’t mentioned to anyone.

  The most marvellous part of going to London would be seeing Rajish again.

  They had met during the national spelling bee. India remembered his infectious grin that lifted into the corners of his cheeks, making everyone around him smile (and at first had made India want to run). She’d never been good at making friends, but with him it felt easy. They’d been writing letters since they last saw each other. Paper letters – not email – which somehow felt more special. She’d kept every one in her bedside table.

  She let herself think about him a moment longer before brushing the thought away.

  She pulled the blankets to her chin and closed her eyes against another threatening tear, knowing that she wouldn’t be going to London after all.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in a small suburb of Toronto, Canada, a young girl named Holly Trifle was having her own troubles.

  She was lying on her narrow, lumpy bed with the door closed, reading a book. Her bedroom wasn’t so much a room as a big cupboard where families put stuff they’re not sure they want to keep but hold on to just in case. It had no windows, so even on a sunny day Holly had to have the light on, which highlighted just how tiny the room actually was.

  But to Holly it was the most glorious place in the world. She loved being there because there was never any danger her family would come in. If she stayed quiet enough, they often seemed to forget she was even there.

  Which was just the way she liked it.

  It wasn’t that Holly didn’t like her family, but she often wondered if they were her real family, or if she’d been given to them by mistake when she was born.

  Her mother felt the same because when the nurse had tried to hand the newborn Holly to Mrs Trifle, she shouted, ‘No! She can’t be my baby! There must be some mistake.’

  Holly reached out to her mother, gurgling and ready to be cuddled.

  But Mrs Trifle was having none of it.

  ‘Take her away!’ she shouted. ‘And do NOT let anyone see her. I don’t want them traumatised by such a hideously plain child.’

  Mr Trifle, however, thought his daughter looked perfect, with her button nose and chubby legs – he couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about.

  He carefully scooped Holly from the nurse’s arms, and in that instant he was struck by her wide, curious eyes and rosy cheeks.

  ‘I think she looks just fine.’

  ‘Fine!’ Mrs Trifle screeched. ‘Fine isn’t good enough! Benedict and Gertrude were born with long lashes and angelic curls.’ She scowled at the bald-headed baby staring at her. ‘This one looks like a shrivelled prune!’

  Benedict and Gertrude were children from Mrs Trifle’s first marriage. Now adults, Benedict was a personal trainer and Gertrude a Pilates instructor and soon-to-be-famous actress – if only someone would give her a role. To Mrs Trifle, they were perfect.

  Unlike Holly.

  ‘All babies go through this squishy phase,’ Mr Trifle said. ‘When she’s a bit older, she’ll be as beautiful as the others.’

  ‘What if she isn’t?’ Mrs Trifle lamented. ‘What if she looks like that forever?’

  Two passers-by peeked into the room, wondering what all the screaming was about and if they should call for help.

  Mrs Trifle knew they’d stopped to stare at the frightful child. ‘We have to leave.’ She began to gather her things and shoved them quickly into her bag. ‘Before someone mistakes her for a hairless dog.’

  But Mr Trifle had stopped listening. Holly tapped his nose with her tiny fingers and gurgled some more. He took her hand in his and smiled in wonder at his first child.

  ‘Are you coming, or do I leave you both behind?’

  Mr Trifle was snapped back to reality by Mrs Trifle’s temper. ‘Yes, dear,’ he sighed.

  His wife hadn’t always been like this. When they’d first met, he’d been dazzled by her easy laugh and exuberance, but recently she laughed less and had a tendency to overreact. Even though he’d never tell her that for fear she would … overreact.

  They snuck out of the hospital down the fire stairs. Mrs Trifle wore sunglasses and a scarf and kept her head low all the way to the car as she despaired about what she had done to deserve such a child.

  ‘We’ve been good people,’ she wailed. ‘We’ve never thrown rubbish into our neighbour’s yard or been cruel to homeless people – we step over them like you’re supposed to – and yet …’ She sniffed. ‘This happens.’

  ‘There, there.’ Mr Trifle tried to comfort his wife, while also trying to avoid her arms, which flung about in distress. He strapped Holly into her baby capsule. She murmured and blew raspberries.

  Mrs Trifle caught a glimpse of Holly in the rearview mirror. She shuddered and looked away. ‘And now we’re stuck with this … reject.’

  Yes, she actually said that.

  Mrs Trifle called Holly a reject.

  ‘Oh why? Why?’ she sobbed.

  Mr Trifle knew that when his wife had worked herself into this state there was no way to calm her down, so he sped home as fast as he could.

  No matter how much Mrs Trifle hoped that her daughter would grow to become beautiful, it didn’t work. Her face remained plain, and no matter how much her mother tried to style her lifeless, mousy-coloured hair and dress her in expensive clothes, it came out all wrong. The girl was doomed to be ordinary.

  As
she grew older, Holly realised she had so little in common with her family; she knew she must belong to different parents – parents who were kind and clever, who read books and daydreamed, just like her. Parents who volunteered at soup kitchens for the homeless and never, ever stepped over them.

  Holly was thinking these thoughts as she lay in her room that was almost a room, only metres away from where Mr and Mrs Trifle, Gertrude and Benedict were watching the latest commercial for the family fitness business: Beaut Butts and Guts.

  The music blared from the television, where all four Trifles dressed in sports gear were running, squatting and stretching. Mr Trifle stood in the centre, lifting a dumbbell with one hand.

  ‘We here at Beaut Butts and Guts believe everyone can be beautiful. In the expert hands of the Trifle family, you will soon be the very best YOU that you can be. So call 1300Butts, and say goodbye to that baggy butt forever.’

  The doorbell rang. The real Trifles ignored it while the Trifles in the commercial pointed at the screen and said in unison, ‘Because Beaut Butts and Guts are waiting for you.’

  The Trifles cheered at how magnificent they were until Gertrude shouted, ‘Let’s watch it again!’

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  Holly poked her head out of her room. ‘Would you like me to get the door?’

  Like most times when Holly spoke, none of her family paid her any attention.

  ‘I guess that means yes.’ Holly pushed her glasses along her nose and climbed out of her room. She opened the door to the postman. He held a letter that was cream-coloured with swirling gold lettering, sealed with a red wax crest.

  ‘Holly Trifle?’ Holly’s long plaits jiggled as she nodded. ‘Special delivery for you. It seems important. I can feel it.’ He smiled at her in a way that rarely happened in her family – the kind of smile that gives you a warm, toasty feeling inside.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said for the letter, but more so for the smile.

  Holly wriggled a finger beneath the seal and opened it. Her palms began to sweat and her hands began to shake. She read the words over and over, hardly able to believe it was true.

  She hurried into the living room, clutching the letter in front of her, and waited for the Trifles to finish watching their commercial. Again.

  ‘I have exciting news,’ Holly announced.

  The Trifles looked up, annoyed that she was interrupting their plans for another viewing, until they saw the ornate letter.

  Mrs Trifle brightened. ‘Is it the Prime Minister asking me to be the National Ambassador for Fitness? Heavens knows we need one, with all those flabby bottoms out there.’

  ‘No,’ Holly said. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Is it one of the television stations?’ Mr Trifle asked. ‘Replying to my emails about a Beaut Butts and Guts reality show?’

  Holly shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid it’s not –’

  ‘I know!’ Gertrude Trifle sprang from the lounge. ‘It’s a Hollywood studio begging me to appear in their next film.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Holly said, ‘but it’s –’

  ‘The World’s Hunkiest Bachelor competition.’ Benedict smiled smugly. ‘I knew they’d want me.’

  ‘No, it’s not that either.’

  Mrs Trifle was confused. ‘Well, what else could it be?’

  Holly took a steadying breath. ‘I’ve been invited to compete in the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee in London.’

  The Trifles said nothing, unable to see how this was exciting news.

  ‘What?’ Mrs Trifle asked. ‘You mean that spelling competition you lost last time?’

  ‘I didn’t lose.’ Holly felt her excitement fade, which is something that happened a lot when she was with her family. ‘I came second.’

  ‘Exactly!’ her mother said in a huff. ‘Which means you lost.’

  ‘Second place is the first-place loser,’ Benedict chimed in.

  ‘It was a very close second,’ Mr Trifle said, trying to defend his daughter.

  Benedict sniffed. ‘All those years spent in your room reading books, and you couldn’t even win.’

  ‘Books!’ Gertrude sank back onto the lounge. ‘They’re a waste of money, if you ask me.’ Not that anyone had asked her, and since Gertrude had never read a book in her life, she really wasn’t an expert on the matter.

  Even though Holly had lived with her family for eleven years, four months and three days, this wasn’t quite the reaction she was hoping for, but what Mrs Trifle said next was something she was absolutely not expecting.

  ‘You’re not going.’

  ‘What?’ Holly momentarily lost her breath. ‘I have to go. The top spellers from around the world have been invited.’

  ‘Well, they’ll be there without you.’ Mrs Trifle stood up and put her manicured hands on her shiny, lycra-clad hips. ‘You’re not going to some spelling game half-way across the world. It’s time you helped in the family business. Your brother and sister do their share, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t either.’

  Holly started to panic. ‘But –’

  ‘That’s right! Butts! Every waking second you’re not at school, you’re going to be focussed on butts, not on some silly competition where last time you were too lazy to win and blew our chances at a great big bag of prize money.’

  ‘Prize money.’ Benedict’s ears pricked up at the mention of money. ‘Since this is the International Spelling Bee, I bet there’ll be even more.’

  ‘More?’ Mrs Trifle’s avaricious eyes widened. ‘How much more?’ She snatched the invitation from her daughter’s hands. ‘We hereby invite you blah blah blah … congratulations, spelling, blah … Here it is!’ She paused for a second. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘I think she should enter,’ Benedict decided.

  Holly smiled. This was the nicest thing her brother had ever done for her, even though it was only because of the motorbike and leather jacket he was thinking about buying with all that cash.

  ‘It could be another waste of time if she bombs out again,’ Mrs Trifle sneered.

  Holly’s mother’s words felt like an anchor dragging her down into some murky gloom.

  Mr Trifle caught a glimpse of his daughter’s miserable face and knew it was time to step in. ‘Or all that free publicity could make Beaut Butts and Guts the number one fitness emporium in the country. And fulfill our dream of expanding the business overseas. What do you say? Should we let her try again?’

  Mrs Trifle considered the idea. ‘It would give her a chance to redeem herself from her previous failure.’

  Coming second in a national spelling bee wasn’t actually a failure, but Holly could feel her mother changing her mind, so she didn’t bother to argue.

  ‘All right. Molly can enter.’

  Mrs Trifle didn’t realise that she’d just called her daughter the wrong name. This was not, as you’ve probably guessed, the first time this had happened. She glared at her youngest child, leaned down and poked a glossy fingernail against Holly’s chest. ‘This time we’ll be there to make sure you don’t blow it.’

  Holly froze. ‘Actually, the competition will only pay for one chaperone, so I was thinking Dad could come with me.’

  Mrs Trifle shook her head. ‘We’ll need both of us there if we’re going to expand to Britain.’

  Holly had to think fast. ‘Who will run the business?’

  ‘Gertrude and Benedict.’ Mrs Trifle gazed proudly at her favoured children. ‘They’re more than capable.’

  And with that, the Trifles went back to watching their commercial. Again.

  Holly shuddered at the idea of her mother coming to the Bee. Mrs Trifle seemed to make it her life’s purpose to embarrass her daughter, performing aerobic displays at sports carnivals and lunging while pushing the shopping trolley. She even made the family catch buses so they could hand Beaut Butts and Guts flyers to the overweight passengers.

  Mrs Trifle was so embarrassing that Holly’s friends had long stopped comi
ng round after school or inviting her over in case they got one of her mother’s lectures.

  Now she’d have the opportunity to embarrass Holly in another country, on the world stage.

  Holly’s initial excitement had almost disappeared, and she wondered if she should even go.

  But that made her feel worse.

  Staying in her room and reading would save Holly from any embarrassment, but she also knew that being part of the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee would be a way to meet people who were more like her.

  Or even make a friend who might want to hear what she had to say.

  In a pokey flat on a dead-end street in Wormwood, England, a child named Peter Eriksson lived with his mum and grandfather.

  He sat on his bed, staring at the grey street below. Grey flats were squished tightly on both sides, and the whole neighbourhood was soaked by a steady drizzle of rain.

  The boy’s pet lizard, Prince Harry, snuggled on his chest.

  ‘At least he didn’t punch me in the face this time.’ The brand-new bruise on Peter’s shoulder ached. ‘I guess that’s something.’

  Prince Harry stretched out his neck and nuzzled Peter’s cheek, making him laugh. ‘If only you were bigger, you’d stand up to him. I know it.’

  That day, after school, Peter had been bullied.

  Again.

  Bruiser had slammed him against the brick wall of the toilet block. There’d been an icy chill to the day, which made the bricks feel even harder and sharper, and Peter knew they’d leave another bruise he’d have to hide from his mum.

  The playground was empty and a cold wind blew across the yard, kicking up lunch wrappers. There was something about the way they swirled against the cloud-filled sky that made Peter wish he was a scrap of paper too, so he could float away, light and free.

  ‘Well? What’ve you got to say?’

  Peter was dragged away from his daydream by the tightening grip of Bruiser’s fingers, which held him by the scruff of his shirt.

  ‘You gonna answer me, Chubby, or not?’

  Chubby, that’s what Peter was called at school – even by some of the teachers. They said it with a smile, like it was a joke, but he never understood why they didn’t realise how much it hurt. At least the bruises faded over time.