know he’s trying to be kind. But there’s something about the way he says it that stings me.
“It’s OK, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I start moving the tiles back and forth on my rack, trying to look confident.
After a minute or two I glance down at my phone, in case a text has somehow arrived silently—but there’s nothing.
Everyone else is concentrating on their tiles or on the board. The atmosphere is hushed and intense, like an exam room. I shift my tiles around more and more briskly, willing some stupendous word to pop out at me. But no matter what I do, it’s a fairly crap situation. I could make RAW . Or WAR .
And still my phone is silent. Sam must have been joking about helping me. Of course he was joking. I feel a wave of humiliation. What’s he going to think, when a picture of a Scrabble board arrives on his phone?
“Any ideas yet, Poppy?” Wanda says in encouraging tones, as though I’m a subnormal child. I suddenly wonder if, while I was in the kitchen, Magnus told his parents to be nice to me.
“Just deciding between options.” I attempt a cheerful smile.
OK. I have to do this. I can’t put it off any longer. I’ll make RAW .
No, WAR .
Oh, what’s the difference?
My heart low, I put the A and W down on the board—as my phone bleeps with a text.
WHAIZLED. Use the D from OUTSTEPPED. Triple word score, plus 50-point bonus.
Oh my God.
I can’t help giving a laugh, and Antony shoots me an odd look.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Just … my patient making a joke.” My phone bleeps again.
It’s Scottish dialect, btw. Used by Robert Burns.
“So, is that your word, Poppy?” Antony is peering at my pathetic offering. “ Raw? Jolly good. Well done!”
His heartiness is painful.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “My mistake. On second thought, I think I’ll do this word instead.”
Carefully, I lay down WHAIZLED on the board and sit back, looking nonchalant.
There’s an astounded silence.
“Poppy, sweets,” says Magnus at last. “It has to be a genuine word, you know. You can’t make one up—”
“Oh, don’t you know that word?” I adopt a tone of surprise. “Sorry. I thought it was fairly common knowledge.”
“ Whay-zled? ” ventures Wanda dubiously. “ Why-zled? How do you pronounce it, exactly?”
Oh God. I have no bloody idea.
“It … er … depends on the region. It’s traditional Scottish dialect, of course,” I add with a knowledgeable air, as though I’m Stephen Fry. 42 “Used by Robert Burns. I was watching a documentary about him the other night. He’s rather a passion of mine, in fact.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in Burns.” Magnus looks taken aback.
“Oh yes,” I say as convincingly as possible. “Always have been.”
“ Which poem does whaizled come from?” Wanda persists.
“It’s …” I swallow hard. “It’s actually rather a beautiful poem. I can’t remember the title now, but it goes something like …”
I hesitate, trying to think what Burns’s poetry sounds like. I heard some once at a Hogmanay party, not that I could understand a word of it.
” ‘ Twas whaizled … when the wully whaizle … wailed . And so on!” I break off brightly. “I won’t bore you.”
Antony raises his head from the N-Z volume of the dictionary, which he instantly picked up when I laid my tiles down and has been flicking through.
“Quite right.” He seems a bit flummoxed. “ Whaizled . Scottish dialect for wheezed . Well, well. Very impressive.”
“Bravo, Poppy.” Wanda is totting up. “So, that’s a triple word score, plus your fifty-point bonus … so that’s … one hundred and thirty-one points! The highest score so far!”
“One hundred and thirty-one?” Antony grabs her paper. “Are you sure?”
“Congratulations, Poppy!” Felix leans over to shake my hand.
“It was nothing, really.” I beam modestly around. “Shall we keep going?”
35 I finally winkled this out of him on the phone at
“It’s OK, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I start moving the tiles back and forth on my rack, trying to look confident.
After a minute or two I glance down at my phone, in case a text has somehow arrived silently—but there’s nothing.
Everyone else is concentrating on their tiles or on the board. The atmosphere is hushed and intense, like an exam room. I shift my tiles around more and more briskly, willing some stupendous word to pop out at me. But no matter what I do, it’s a fairly crap situation. I could make RAW . Or WAR .
And still my phone is silent. Sam must have been joking about helping me. Of course he was joking. I feel a wave of humiliation. What’s he going to think, when a picture of a Scrabble board arrives on his phone?
“Any ideas yet, Poppy?” Wanda says in encouraging tones, as though I’m a subnormal child. I suddenly wonder if, while I was in the kitchen, Magnus told his parents to be nice to me.
“Just deciding between options.” I attempt a cheerful smile.
OK. I have to do this. I can’t put it off any longer. I’ll make RAW .
No, WAR .
Oh, what’s the difference?
My heart low, I put the A and W down on the board—as my phone bleeps with a text.
WHAIZLED. Use the D from OUTSTEPPED. Triple word score, plus 50-point bonus.
Oh my God.
I can’t help giving a laugh, and Antony shoots me an odd look.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Just … my patient making a joke.” My phone bleeps again.
It’s Scottish dialect, btw. Used by Robert Burns.
“So, is that your word, Poppy?” Antony is peering at my pathetic offering. “ Raw? Jolly good. Well done!”
His heartiness is painful.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “My mistake. On second thought, I think I’ll do this word instead.”
Carefully, I lay down WHAIZLED on the board and sit back, looking nonchalant.
There’s an astounded silence.
“Poppy, sweets,” says Magnus at last. “It has to be a genuine word, you know. You can’t make one up—”
“Oh, don’t you know that word?” I adopt a tone of surprise. “Sorry. I thought it was fairly common knowledge.”
“ Whay-zled? ” ventures Wanda dubiously. “ Why-zled? How do you pronounce it, exactly?”
Oh God. I have no bloody idea.
“It … er … depends on the region. It’s traditional Scottish dialect, of course,” I add with a knowledgeable air, as though I’m Stephen Fry. 42 “Used by Robert Burns. I was watching a documentary about him the other night. He’s rather a passion of mine, in fact.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in Burns.” Magnus looks taken aback.
“Oh yes,” I say as convincingly as possible. “Always have been.”
“ Which poem does whaizled come from?” Wanda persists.
“It’s …” I swallow hard. “It’s actually rather a beautiful poem. I can’t remember the title now, but it goes something like …”
I hesitate, trying to think what Burns’s poetry sounds like. I heard some once at a Hogmanay party, not that I could understand a word of it.
” ‘ Twas whaizled … when the wully whaizle … wailed . And so on!” I break off brightly. “I won’t bore you.”
Antony raises his head from the N-Z volume of the dictionary, which he instantly picked up when I laid my tiles down and has been flicking through.
“Quite right.” He seems a bit flummoxed. “ Whaizled . Scottish dialect for wheezed . Well, well. Very impressive.”
“Bravo, Poppy.” Wanda is totting up. “So, that’s a triple word score, plus your fifty-point bonus … so that’s … one hundred and thirty-one points! The highest score so far!”
“One hundred and thirty-one?” Antony grabs her paper. “Are you sure?”
“Congratulations, Poppy!” Felix leans over to shake my hand.
“It was nothing, really.” I beam modestly around. “Shall we keep going?”
35 I finally winkled this out of him on the phone at
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