A Royal Mess (35 page)

I laughed, remembering the translations we’d amused ourselves with during dull Latin lectures last term. ‘Your dog ate it?’

‘Too obvious, you think?’

‘Here,’ I said, passing my book over. ‘You’d better copy mine.’ Some loopy Lower Sixth girls had told me that dead languages were easy A grades. I thought that meant I could snooze and gossip my way through class, but Miss Mills ruined that little illusion quick smart. As she entered the
room that morning, she rambled off the old
In nomine patras, et filie et spirtitus sancti,
then started gabbing away
ad absurdum
about how much work we were expected to put in this term.

What did she think Latin was, exactly? A living language? Honestly, teachers are a breed apart. This was proved beyond doubt when she passed us a booklet titled – and I’m not making this up—
How to Pass Your Exams (And Enjoy Yourself).

Honestly, I don’t know why I bother attending classes at all sometimes. The picture on the front of the booklet depicted a skateboarder. Now what, I ask you, has skateboarding got to do with passing your Latin GCSE? Nothing, that’s what. For a start, skateboards and the clothes that go with them are banned at our school.

Things didn’t get better when Miss Mills urged us to open our booklet, where saying after pithy saying urged us to do unnatural things like, ‘Convert linear notes to

MIND MAPS.’

I turned to a page decorated in wizards, fat television show hosts and musical scores urging us to learn, ‘VISUALLY, ORALLY, AURALLY and KINAESTHETICALLY.’ Portia and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

I passed Portia a note.

I just bumped into Honey’s security guy in the corridor.

She passed one back.

He seems weirdly nice for a Honey person?

I wrote back:

Who’d want to steal Honey, though?

Portia wrote:

Maybe someone out there’s got a hit on her?

I responded:

No one asked me to chip in.

And then we started laughing like that Laughing Cavalier chap that hangs in the Wallace Collection in London. We went there on an art excursion in Year Eight although Star and I nicked off to Selfridges and tried on wigs. It was still très, très culturally enhancing, I assure you.

We were laughing so feverishly that I actually fell off my chair. Even Portia, with her aloof demeanour and centuries of breeding, only barely managed to keep her balance.

Miss Mills loomed over me as I lay sprawled on the floor. But instead of saying something charitable and nice like ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she snatched up our notes and read them.

I’m sure that reading the personal correspondence of other people can’t be legal. Still, I thought hopefully, even horrible old Miss Mills must see the joke? But no, instead of joining in our circus of hilarity, she made us stay back and translate our notes into Latin after class. Honestly, some teachers really should be sectioned under the Lack of Humour Act.

Her stupid punishment made us late for our lunchtime fencing practice. We ran like mad things down the corridors. Well, I ran like a mad thing because I had to do a sort of running waddle so I could keep my knickers
covered with Clem’s tiny skirt. As we took a short pause while passing a nun, I asked Portia about Billy, hoping to garner support against Star’s Dumping Boys crusade.

‘I’ve dumped him,’ she said.

I fainted.

Okay, I didn’t actually faint, because then Portia nudged me and said, ‘Just joking, darling.’

But then she added, ‘We
are
on a break, though. At least until after the GCSEs. We agreed it would be too stressful, especially now we’re both on the national team. I’m really excited about going to Italy, aren’t you, darling? I hear the Italian fencing standard is the best in the world after the Hungarians. Basically Billy and I agreed to prioritise fencing and exams.’

Then I actually did faint.

Honey’s Buddhist guard helped me up – and saw my knickers, which was mortifying because they were a pair that had once been white but had turned grey in the wash.

Honey had a total Honey Fit. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing using my security? And as for you, Siddhartha, you are supposed to have your eyes on your principle at all times. Someone could have kidnapped
me
while you were touching her.’

Siddhartha looked ashamed. ‘Sorry, Miss,’ he said to his principle.

‘My father’s paying you to guard
me,
not
her,’
she shrieked, pointing one of her long talons at me. ‘Why would anybody want to steal
her?’

ELEVEN
Not Fair Was Made to Fare

Portia and I had to run off because we were having another laughing fit and didn’t want to get a stitch before fencing. Now that we had been selected for the national team and were heading off to Italy for our first international tournament, we had pledged to devote as much time as we could to extra practice. The Italian fencing team was one of the best in the world, which was a bit daunting.

Our South African fencing master, Bell End, was as mad as a drawer of old ladies’ knickers. He was sitting on the floor, reading
Sword
magazine. He didn’t look up when we came in so we sailed past him, through the armoury and into the changing rooms. We were both feverish with excitement, as this would be the first time we would be fencing with our GBR international kit.

The outfits fit so perfectly, we did some Milanese modelling struts and said ‘Mama mia’ and ‘Ooh la la.’
It was one of those blissfully va-va-va-voom moments that I will never forget. Actually, I could quite fancy myself in my new gear. I couldn’t wait to show it off to Freds. It was all so feverishly exciting.

When we came out, Bell End was still on the floor reading his magazine, only now he was lying facedown, his head propped on his hands. I looked at Portia and she looked at me in that way you do when wondering if a teacher has reached the straightjacket stage.

I did my ‘this is awkward’ cough.

Portia slapped me on the back and asked, ‘Is this an inconvenient time, sir?’ with all the serenity you’d expect of true nobility.

Bell End looked up at us as if we were strangers. ‘I’m not in the mood for fencing,’ he replied gruffly.

‘Shall we come back later perhaps, Mr Wellend?’ she inquired, remembering to use his real name.

‘If you like,’ he muttered like a sullen child.

Talk about exasperating. ‘But sir, we’ve got our first international tournament in Italy to prepare for,’ I protested, ignoring Portia’s warning look. Honestly, if I had had a Bibsmore stick, I would have poked him with it.

Bell End looked up at me and smiled. ‘There’s the spirit, Kelly! Don’t take no for an answer.’ Then he jumped up with the agility you expect from an Olympic Silver medal winner and slapped me on the back so hard I’m pretty certain he dislodged a few vital organs. For a short little stout South African, he’s fiercely muscular.

‘Right! Let’s be having you first, Kelly. Briggsie, wire her up.’

Portia wired me up.

Bell End grabbed a sabre and mask from the salle d’armes and wired himself to the electrical device that would record our points. He saluted me with his embarrassing signature salute. Oh my God, it was soooo tragic. His blade made a threatening swishing sound as he carved the letter
W
in the air.

He called ‘play’ and began an aggressive shuffle towards me using the funny little steps you spend most of your fencing career practicing.

‘I’m Italian, an arrogant, unpredictable nasty bit of work,’ he told me in his thick South African accent as he made a swiping lunge.

What was it with teachers and role-playing? Was there something in their curriculum that recommended it? If so, the suits who come up with these things should be lined up against a wall and pelted with water balloons, I thought, only to realise too late that Bell End had pulled back his sabre and punched the blade into my chest.

‘Ow, that hurt,’ I gasped over the buzz of the electrical point recorder.

You’re not really meant to hit your opponent overly hard, but Bell End knew, as I did, that while you could be carded for overly aggressive play, you could usually get away with a lot before that red card came your way.

Bell End chuckled mercilessly at my agony as I limped back to the
en guard
line clutching my ribs.

Teachers are soooo hilarious.

He called ‘play’ again.

We advanced down the piste. I was sore but determined to avenge myself. Bell End was still pressing on with his role-play. ‘Yes, my father’s father was killed in a duel. I myself am prepared to play dirty.’ Seriously, his fake Italian accent was a shocker.

The man was a clinical case study in lunacy. I’m sure the school could make a fortune selling his mind to science and build all the new science wings they want, I was thinking as Bell End gained priority once again and stole the point. All these intellectual musings on the fencing piste were costing me dearly. I know it will be a huge loss to the world, but I think I shall have to abandon philosophy as a calling if I plan to distinguish myself as a sabreur.

‘I am a molto-talented player,’ my master taunted dementedly from the en garde line before calling ‘play’ again. ‘I took my first baby step in the salle, and I know all the tricks,’ he ranted away as we advanced towards one another purposefully. ‘I knowthat for every red card I get, I’ll still get away with a few illegal manoeuvres.’ He laughed like a crazy man.

I lunged.

‘I’m smart enough to stop short of eviction, though,’ he warned as he deftly slipped his blade under mine and executed a cut to my arm, knocking my sabre clean out of my hand. And then, to add insult to injury, he thwacked
me across the legs as I was grappling impotently with the sword dangling pathetically from its wires.

‘That is soooo not legal!’ I shouted through the plastic guard of my mask. ‘The legs aren’t even a target!’

‘Quite right, Kelly.’ He snickered. ‘The naughty Italian girl will be issued with a warning, but not a red card yet, I hazard. She likes seeing her opponents unnerved,’ Bell End said nastily. ‘Are you unnerved, Kelly? Are you frightened? Is your belly filled with butterflies and your mind trembling with terror?’

‘Yes, of course I’m bloody unnerved. My fencing master is the apex of loondom. What pupil in her right mind wouldn’t be unnerved?’ I yelled back at him.

He continued to play with a reckless disregard for the rules of engagement. Every time I pointed out a breech of rules or etiquette to him he’d either say, ‘Ah, but the president didn’t see that’ or ‘Quite right, Kelly. Another yellow card to the naughty Italian.’

When I realised the victory was about to be stolen from me by a cheating nutcase with schizophrenic disorders, it all got too much for me. After another illegal point was awarded to the ‘nasty Italian girl,’ I completely flipped.

I tore off my mask so I could fight my corner properly. Turning to my friend, I said, ‘That point was illegal. Portia, you saw that!’

Portia went to open her mouth, but Bell End put his hand up before she could get a word out. ‘That’s a red card to you, Kelly, for removing your mask during play. Your
opponent couldn’t be happier. Your mistake has put her only one point away from victory. If this is how you intend to play in Italy in two weeks, you may as well buy yourself a clown suit now!’

‘Daft fool,’ I muttered as I angrily shoved my mask back on. I bet none of the other members of the national team had to suffer the indignity of a fencing master like Bell End. I bet they all had nice, reasonable, polished masters with poise and decorum and a sense of fair play.

But in the words of someone who had time for idle thoughts, ‘ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.’ And to that end, if we were playing dirty I would play dirtier. The next point would be mine. I would make bloody sure of it. No nutty South African with a bad Italian accent was going to cheat me out of victory.