The Mayor opened the Tournament by taking the carrot from her mouth. Everyone complains that Mayor Franny is too young to be a mayor, and that she chews carrots too much, but I like her. Now she shouted into her loud hailer: ‘And we are away, folks! It’s open! The Tournament is open!’
Standing alongside the Mayor was Millicent Cadger, Spindrift Tournament Director. She raised her arms and shouted, ‘Woot! Woot! Hooray!’
‘Tch, tch,’ muttered Sir Brathelthwaite.
Off I went, to warm up for my race.
FINLAY
My first race was boys’ long distance. Three times around the track, it is.
Glim and I train for this by getting up at 5am a couple of days a week and running by the shipyards, along the Beach with the Yellow Sand, around the tallow factory, and up and down the steps of the lighthouse. The lighthouse keeper, Randalf, is usually having his kippers and tea when we arrive. We shout up to ask if we can borrow his stairs.
‘Be my guests,’ he calls down. But, after a while, he sighs each time we pass him, and he imitates the sound of our puffing breath and banging footsteps. ‘Get away with you,’ he says, eventually.
Now I looked around at my competitors. There was that solid little kid from Spindrift Public, who gives me a scare each year by zooming out front for the first two laps. But he always runs out of puff by the third, and has to sit down on the track.
There was Ro Lee Hat from Harrison Boys who’s pretty good at this event, and generally comes second to me. You never know when he might close the gap, so I’m always uneasy about him. What if he’d been training this year? He was squinting down the track, psyching himself up.
‘Good luck,’ I said, to mess with his focus.
And to wish him good luck.
Ro Lee Hat bowed. ‘And to you, Finlay.’
Everyone else, I knew I could take. Five boys from Brathelthwaite Boarding School were huddled together a little distance away, doing the daftest warm-up stretches I’d ever seen. Honestly. The rest of us were trying not to guffaw. Guffaw means laugh so loudly you could use up all your energy for the race.
‘Are you boys planning to be in this race?’ the official called to them. We were ready to start, but the Brathelthwaites were still curled up like caterpillars.
One of boys spun around. Tall kid with white-blond hair that fell to his nose. Realising he couldn’t see through his hair, he flopped his head sideways to get a clearer line of vision. He seemed surprised to see us there. I honestly think he’d forgotten where he was.
‘Right you are!’ he said. ‘Come on, chaps!’
The five boys jogged over and joined us at the line.
‘On your marks,’ said the official.
I took a deep breath. Stared down the track.
‘I say,’ said the blond boy, pointing at my feet. ‘Old chap, you’ve forgotten your shoes!’
Crack! went the starting gun.
The first lap, I seriously considered quitting the race to take him out. One solid thwack to the nose with a closed fist.
I’d give him a moment to brush his hair aside first: wouldn’t be right to hit a boy who couldn’t see. But absolutely right to hit that boy. Distracting another racer at the start of the race! It’s as close to cheating as you can get without actually tripping me up. Plus, I hadn’t forgotten my shoes. I’d just been growing lately. Lili-Daisy had wanted to get me new runners in time for the Tournament but she also wanted to get medicine for the kids with whooping cough. So, no shoes.
By the second lap, I decided I’d finish the race and then smack him.
By the third and final lap, I remembered I was in a race.
I started paying attention.
The solid kid from Spindrift Public was just ahead, as usual, but I could see his legs wobbling and I could hear him gasping for air. ‘Three, two, one,’ I said to myself, and he sat down on the track.
He scooted himself off to the side to be out of my way and gave me a sad wave as I passed. I could still hear him panting as I rounded the next bend.
Someone’s got to tell the kid to pace himself.
A clear run to the finish line stretched before me. I was almost at the crowd in the stands, and there was a lot of cheering, clapping and ‘Go, Finlay!’
Who cares about a daft Boarding School kid? I decided. It was good to be running. My rhythm was just right, my stride felt good. I decided to give the kid a break and not hit him. Just a proper talking-to.
I ran by the stands, and the crowd was really roaring. Screaming even. I glanced over, thinking they were getting a little carried away, and caught glimpses of Baker Joe and the Witch-from-the-red-roof-cottage. Both were waving madly at me, sweeping their hands through the air towards the finish line, as if they thought I’d forgotten where to go.
‘Take it easy,’ I muttered. ‘I know the way.’
And that’s when I sensed it.
Right behind me.
Another runner.
Ro Lee Hat. So he had been training. I quickened my pace. Behind me, Ro Lee Hat did the same.
I could hear his breathing. His thudding feet.
The finish line was just ahead.
I quickened my pace again—but so did he. I’d used up all my speed; this was as fast as I could go—and Ro Lee Hat was making a move. He was shifting to my right.
I kept my eyes ahead. The shadow to my right went thud, thud, thud. It was tall, that shadow—too tall. I glanced over.
It was not Ro Lee Hat.
It was the boy with the white-blond hair in his eyes, arms swinging, legs pounding, inching slowly by me.
He was ahead of me.
He was almost at the finish line.
I ran like I never had before. Like the grass was on fire, like a tidal wave was after me.
He was just ahead, just ahead, and then I passed him, stuck my head forward, and crossed the finish line.
Beat him by a nose.
Honey Bee
I almost missed the starting gun for my race, the girls’ long distance, because the uproar was so loud. Also, I was distracted by my fellow students, over in our marquee.
Their faces looked exactly as if they’d just watched their homes picked up by a tornado, carried off and dropped into the sea. Uncle Dominic was weaving his horsewhip through his fingers in agitation. Sir Brathelthwaite was as white as a whitecap and then, as I watched, the white darkened into thunderclouds.
A boy from the Orphanage School had won the first race of the day.
We simply could not believe it.
That boy was Finlay, of course, and that race was the first time I had ever seen him. He is a wonderful runner. You don’t believe it at first because he’s such a little, skinny, scrappy boy, arms and legs like twigs, and he was running barefoot. He did none of the things that we learn in our drills. His arms were held much too far from his body and his posture was ungainly. It would have been funny if it wasn’t superb—somehow his rhythm and stride were perfection.
The ending was so close. Finlay’s final sprint to defeat Hamish Winterson was a magnificent surge. I could hardly breathe. The crowd, as I said, roared.
And the Brathelthwaite marquee fell deathly silent.
You see, Hamish Winterson is our school’s best runner. He has been Boys’ Champion at the Cutler Sarkys (the Private and Exclusive Schools Athletics Competition) for the last five years in a row.
But he had just been defeated! By an orphan!
Hamish himself was so astonished that he forgot the rules about local children and gave Finlay a hearty slap on the back. ‘Oh, I say!’ I heard him bellow, as he shook Finlay’s hand. ‘Well done! Jolly fine show!’
Finlay seemed very cross about something, but I didn’t see what happened next, as I had to run.
I won my race, but only just.
A girl from the Orphanage was beside me the entire time. It was thrilling to have competition—not to boast, but I am usually Girls’ Champion at the Cutler Sarkys, and I never have to work
for it; I just have long legs. But the final lap of this race nearly did me in! I was terribly puffed out.
Like Hamish, I also forgot the rules and shook the girl’s hand. I wanted to thank her for the marvel of her pace.
She was very polite and seemed shy. She had short, dark hair, dark skin, and bright eyes. ‘You’re good,’ she informed me, getting her breath back. Hearing these words from her pleased me more than hearing them from my coach at school.
‘Might I know your name?’ I enquired.
‘You might,’ she said, serious but with dimples. ‘It’s Glim.’
‘I’m Honey Bee,’ I offered.
‘I’ll see you at the next race, Honey Bee,’ she said, dimples again. I think she meant she was not going to let me win twice. What a lark! I thought.
After that, the day became intense.
Mayor Franny kept announcing the point scores, and I rather wished she wouldn’t. It was too much for Sir Brathelthwaite to bear. His face kept changing colour and he was breathing as if he himself had been running races. Uncle Dominic, meanwhile, was clutching his horsewhip to his chest like a comfort blanket.
It was so close, you see, and the lead kept changing. One moment Brathelthwaite would be winning the day, the next the Orphanage School, then back to Brathelthwaite again. Back and forth, all the time.
Here is a sample.
Finlay won the boys’ middle distance too. A gloom fell upon our marquee, and people tore the crusts of their sandwiches to pieces. I thought Uncle Dominic might damage his nose, his nostrils were flaring so violently.
But then Hamish won the boys’ sprint! A cheer swept through our marquee and everyone began passing around slices of cake and shouting our school chant.
However, next thing, Glim beat me in the girls’ middle distance, and our school went back to tearing crusts and weeping.
And so it went on.
Glim also beat me in the sprint, but then I (just) beat her in the long jump. Hamish beat Finlay in the hurdles, but Finlay beat him (just) in the long jump. A pair of twins—a boy and a girl—from the Orphanage both won the shot-put, discus and javelin, but then—
And so, as I said, it went. By 3pm, we were dead even.
Only one event remained: the mixed sprint relay.
If we won this event, we would win the day.
If the Orphanage School won, they would be victor.
This was unthinkable.
Our marquee was silent. We were seated in our folding chairs, our backs very straight. Sir Brathelthwaite cleared his throat.
‘The following students will come forward, please,’ he said and, very solemnly, he read the names of our relay team. ‘Hamish Winterson. His Grace, the Duke of Ainsley. Sarah-May Cohen. Honey Bee Rowe.’
We each stepped up.
‘You are the mixed relay team, am I correct?’
We nodded. ‘Yes, sir. You are correct, sir.’
Millicent Cadger was terrifically strict about her Tournament rules, and we had registered our names for the events a month earlier. We’d been training as a relay team daily. Our baton handover was perfect.
‘There is only one thing I want to say,’ Sir Brathelthwaite began, but Victor cleared his throat, interrupting.
‘Might I have a quiet word with you, Sir Brathelthwaite? Before you go on?’
‘Certainly, Your Grace.’
We other members of the team waited while Victor and Sir Brathelthwaite stepped aside and spoke in low voices. We could not hear their conversation but, after a moment, Sir Brathelthwaite said, ‘Oh ho! Ha!’ and he and Victor stepped back to us.
‘I have only one thing to say to you,’ Sir Brathelthwaite repeated, his smile vanishing. He paused and looked hard at each of us in turn. He stared at me for so long I could have drawn a picture of the blood vessels in his eyes. At last, he spoke, lowering his voice. ‘It is vital,’ he hissed, ‘that you win this.’
Beside him, Uncle Dominic swished the horsewhip.
FINLAY
Whoosh! Was that a freight train going by?
Honey Bee just told the whole day in a few paragraphs! Reminds me of the solid kid from Spindrift Public who can’t pace himself. I mean, you could get whiplash trying to keep up with the girl’s storytelling. If you’d been with me for that chapter, I’d have taken you through each race and event, one at a time. You’d have enjoyed it.
Too late now. I will say this, though: after the long distance race, I had a go at Hamish.
‘Golly!’ he replied. ‘Thought you’d misplaced your shoes, old chap! Sort of thing I might do, forgetting my shoes, see? Awfully sorry, but I truly—’ He’d have kept right on talking, but I was tired of his voice and walked off.
In the other races, he started without interrupting me, and in the sprint, he was just ahead of me the whole way. Legs! I thought. Go faster! My legs just bellowed back: Going as fast as we can! YOU go faster.
And Hamish beat me.
Sprinting is my thing. It’s who I am—the fastest boy in Spindrift.
Or that’s who I was. Then Hamish beat me.
Meanwhile, Lili-Daisy was running around hugging everybody, thinking this would make it all right about Brathelthwaite winning half the events.
When she wasn’t hugging us, she was staring at the Brathelthwaites. We all were. We were sprawled on old blankets, nothing but our hats to shade us, and they had folding chairs under a silk marquee. Giant pots of flowers in each corner.
Glim and I were stretching, getting ready for the mixed relay. The twins were sitting on our feet to help with the stretches, their heads inside their newspapers.
‘This one’s ours,’ Glim said.
‘You bet,’ I agreed.
But we didn’t really believe it. Our relay team was not the best. Daffo was on the team, and he’s pretty quick, but the other fast girl at the Orphanage is Avril, and her twisted ankle was propped up on a basket.
Leesa was taking her place. She’s speedy but she’s only eight years old, so not yet as speedy as she will be. At this point, her eyes were darting around like a scared little frog, and she was chewing her knuckles. I was worried she would drop the baton.
‘Just do your best,’ Lili-Daisy advised, squeezing our shoulders. ‘Be proud of yourselves, whatever happens.’
‘I’ll only be proud,’ I said, ‘if we win.’
Across at the Brathelthwaite marquee, the children were eating cream puffs and watching their head teacher speak. A huge man, shoulders like a tanker, stood alongside the head. He kept swinging a whip as if the flies were bothering him. ‘That’s their Deputy,’ Lili-Daisy whispered. ‘Dominic Rowe.’ She shuddered.
Then she told us to relax and think happy thoughts, and she went off to notify Millicent Cadger about the change to our team. We’d registered Avril back before she twisted her ankle and had kept her name down in case of a sudden recovery.
But no recovery.
‘All done,’ Lili-Daisy said, when she returned. ‘Relay is about to be called! Would you like a cold boiled potato for energy?’
‘Lili-Daisy,’ I said, ‘eating a potato right before a race would be ridiculous.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Finlay, I’m ashamed.’
‘No need,’ I told her. ‘We all make mistakes.’
And the relay race was called.
FINLAY
Still me, Finlay. Seemed like time for a new chapter. Honey Bee agrees and suggests I carry on.
I’ll just repeat that last sentence.
And the relay race was called.
Everything went whisper quiet, right across the field. The kids from the different schools, adults in the stadium, teachers, officials. Everyone knew what this race meant. Nobody would blink for fear of missing a moment.
Four lanes. Spindrift Public in Lane 1. Thea Girls and Harrison Boys Combined Team in Lane 2. Brathelthwaite Boarding School in Lane 3. Orphanage School in Lane 4.
The starting gun cracked.
Little Leesa ran first for us. She fle
w like a puff of dandelion caught in a slipstream. Handed over the baton smooth as butter, putting our team in second place behind Brathelthwaite.
Daffo narrowed the gap a little. He’s fast.
He handed over to Glim.
The other schools had fallen behind. It was Brathelthwaite versus the Orphanage. Glim is lightning-fast, but she was up against Honey Bee.
Here I will say that Honey Bee may be an annoying girl who cannot abide violins, but she runs like she’s supposed to be running. Her face, which is generally smiley but with worried lines around the edges, becomes smooth and clear. She reminds me of a sailboat skimming the ocean.
Anyhow, I couldn’t watch Glim and Honey Bee racing, because I had to face forward, ready for my turn.
Slap went the baton onto my palm and, at the exact same moment, I heard Honey Bee slam hers into Hamish’s hand.
Glim had closed the gap. We were even.
I took off with my heart singing happy thoughts about Glim. She must have given everything she had.
Now it was up to me.
Hamish was right alongside me.
Every time I surged, he surged as well.
His breath was in my ear. His pounding legs. Sunlight shining on his flopping hair.
You have to run faster, I said to my legs, and they started up their complaining about how they were running as fast as they could and how—
But I said: Yes.
Yes, I said, calmer than I’ve ever been. You must.
And I was flying. He was flying too, but I was flying faster.
Crossed the finish line first.
The Orphanage had won the day.
Honey Bee
There was no time to congratulate the Orphanage team. Nor was there time to rush back to school, pack my bag, steal a horse and ride away into the sunset, far from the wrath of Sir Brathelthwaite and Uncle Dominic—
As a matter of fact, there was no time even to look at Sir Brathelthwaite and Uncle Dominic.
For along came the constables, scooting children back to the sidelines, waving adults back into the stadium, and there was Mayor Franny with her loud hailer shouting: ‘Positions, everybody! It’s the Queen!’
The Slightly Alarming Tale of the Whispering Wars Page 3
