Emma Shevah - Ping and the Missing Ring: A Bloomsbury Reader: Dark Red Book Band

BLOOMSBURY EDUCATION

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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This electronic edition published in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Text copyright Emma Shevah, 2021

Illustrations copyright Izzy Evans, 2021

Emma Shevah and Izzy Evans have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author and Illustrator of this work

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: PB: 978-1-4729-9409-7; ePDF: 978-1-4729-9411-0; ePub: 978-1-4729-9410-3

Cover and text design by Laura Neate

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE
HALF TERM

Finally, the day had arrived. As Ping packed her suitcase, she was so excited she could barely speak. If she did, the words might burst from her mouth in a blast of heat, noise and energy, and that would not do at all. Not in Pings family. You see, Ping and her family were Thai, and the custom for Thai people is to be calm, composed and polite. Typically, Thai people do not appreciate words bursting in blasts from peoples mouths even eager, excited words. Certainly not cross, cantankerous ones that was not acceptable in the least. Whenever Ping spoke too quickly or too loudly, or when her tone turned as dark as a country road at night, her parents would frown a little and murmur, Shh, shh, Ping. Please be calm, OK?

Ping tried she really did but being calm was difficult. She seemed to have springs in her shoes, bubbles in her body, and roars and giggles and yells trying to leap free from her lungs to the tips of the trees. When she felt the bubbles rise and the giggles gather, she would firmly clamp a lid on top, but all too often it would rip off when she least expected it and whatever was inside her would explode outwards noisily. Now she was excited about the visit, it was almost impossible to keep the lid on.

How are you getting on? Pings mother asked, drifting to Pings bedroom door, her dark hair secured in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Pings mother, Chabah, seemed to glide rather than walk, as if she were a weightless cloud wafting over a warm current of air. She had once been a classical Thai dancer, and now she taught dance to students near their home. She moved elegantly and gracefully, as if she were always performing a slow, flowing dance to a mesmerised audience, but it was simply the dance of her life: the dance of slotting bills in her business folders, the dance of folding the laundry, the dance of paying for parcels at the Post Office. Ping liked how she moved her hands most of all. Even the way her mother washed an apple was poetic, gentle and unhurried, as though she were bathing, with the tenderest love and care, the head of a newborn baby.

Ping was getting on fine, in fact, so she nodded to keep the lid on. Her mother had already placed her clothes in a pile on the chair all Ping needed to do was pack them. But then she just had to speak. You were the last one to use the case! she cried, almost erupting with delight at her genius detective work. Shed found a lone long black hair lying across the shell of the empty suitcase, and a single white trainer sock, unworn, in the zip pocket. In truth, it hadnt been difficult to work out her mother had returned from a trip a few days ago and Ping had known shed taken that particular suitcase because shed seen it in the back of the car but that didnt bother Ping. She was perfecting her powers of perception and honing her noticing skills, and she was definitely, definitely getting better.

Well, sort of. She hadnt noticed her father had moved the elephant painting from the hall to his study until her mother had asked him where it was, and she hadnt noticed her mothers haircut until Yai, her grandmother, had said it looked nice. But no one could expect Ping to be an expert: shed only just started. And anyway, even genius detectives missed some clues. Didnt they?

Course they did. Missing the odd clue didnt matter.

Ping held out the trainer sock and her mother took it with a smile. She was wearing the dress Ping liked best, made of soft, shiny silk in a deep burnished orange with long diamonds of dark green, brown and gold. It was in a traditional Thai style, the skirt long and straight, and the top crossed at the front with bigger diamonds across the sleeves to match the hem of the skirt. In that dress, Ping thought her mother looked and moved like a rare, majestic green and orange butterfly. Ping hoped to be exactly like her mother when she grew up, but Pings shoulder-length hair never looked neat, her clothes always seemed rumpled as if shed slept in a hedge, and she did not look like or move like a butterfly. More like a hippopotamus.

Thinking of that made the bubbles surge and the giggles gather, but Ping kept them in.

Fifteen minutes, OK? her mother added. Daddys working so Ill drive you.

Ping nodded. Her father, Tui, worked in an office doing something that Ping couldnt quite fathom, involving numbers and graphs and budgets. He too was as serene as a stream of spring water. Even when the graphs caused his forehead to furrow, he spoke quietly and respectfully to all. He often travelled for business, and that was the reason Ping was going to stay with her cousins for half term: her father was travelling abroad, and her mother was teaching and performing Thai classical dance in London for the week.

Ping squeezed and squashed the last of her clothes in the case, feeling elated. She loved staying there. She loved Aunty Leks home and she loved her cooking. She loved Aunty Leks shop, which was like a treasure trove. She especially loved seeing her cousins, Tong and Taptim. And to top it all they had a new dog, which is why Ping had to keep her lips tightly zipped and her excitement tucked deep inside her, even though it bubbled up now and then, making her smile turn to a giggle.

Ping stood, scanned her room, and gathered more items she might need. A magnifying glass. A notebook and a pen. A small paintbrush for finding fingerprints. Not that she really knew how to find fingerprints, or why a paintbrush might be useful.

Ready? her mother asked, returning and casting her eye over the contents of Pings open suitcase. Ping noticed her mother wince slightly but neither mentioned the slapdash packing or the somewhat crumpled suitcase contents.

Relieved, Ping nodded.

Books? Pings mum asked. Read two chapters every evening.

Ping nodded.

Toothbrush? The card game you wanted to play with Taptim?