A Royal Mess (7 page)

But Bell End brought me crashing back down to reality with a thud. ‘Yes, fan clubs. I’m not talking about girls like
you,
but mark my words, weak, gutless fencers get their families and friends to come to cheer them on in the hope of intimidating their opponents.’

‘Oh my God!’ I cried, suddenly envisioning Sarah running up and down the piste crying out, ‘Go Boojie! Go Boojie!’

‘And presumably you both have aspirations for the Nationals, and to make that you’ve got to place third at the very least. The very least. And let me pop another of
your girlish little dream bubbles. All the competition you’ll be up against are going to be as good as, if not better than, you.’

I was a bit insulted by that little girlish-dream-bubble remark and almost blurted an objection, but Portia nudged me.

‘And make no mistake, it is in my interest as much as yours that you succeed in your goals to make it to the Nationals. When I take you up to Sheffield on Saturday, all the other masters will be looking at
me,
yes,
me.
They’ll be looking to see what I’ve done with you. How well I’ve whipped you into shape and trained you up. And I don’t want to be a laughingstock. Which is why I’ll be teaching you on a one-to-one every day on top of your regular classes.’

Thank you, Bell End, I mean Mr Wellend,’ I said quickly.

‘And I’ve got another surprise for you too, girlies.’

Something about the glint in his eye made me suspect it wasn’t going to be a nice surprise – like a finger sandwich, for example.

‘I’ll be using two sabres to fence you!’

‘Sir?’ Portia questioned.

‘One in each hand. Double the challenge, double the lesson. We can’t afford to waste time, Briggs. Now grab your weapon, you’re up first. Kelly, wire her up.’

I did as I was told, as Bell End grabbed another sabre off the wall of the salle and wired himself up. Then I sat on
the bench for what would be the most incredible lesson in sabre tactics I had ever witnessed.

Bell End was shorter than Portia, but with the two sabres in his hand he cut an imposing, if not terrifying, figure. Sort of like the Incredible Hulk with elegance. His gruff ways off the piste didn’t match the grace and speed he displayed thereon. He was lightning fast and had the supreme footwork of a dancer. As much as I love taking the piss out of poor old Bell End, I had to admit I was spellbound.

I watched Portia too as she was forced to fence on a different level than I’d seen her fence before. She advanced and retreated with such control that her torso didn’t even seem to be moving, and the speed of her sword and Bell End’s two weapons was so fast, I didn’t know what was going on. The buzzers and lights of the recording box just kept buzzing and flashing.

After their bout, Portia took her mask off and shook out her hair. Instead of her usual perfect hair-commercial coif, which I had always been so envious of, a spray of sweat such as I’d never seen shot out of her hair for a metre or more.

‘See what I mean, Briggs? You were forced to up your game. Well done. Now, Kelly, git up here. Briggs, wire her up.’

Having had the advantage of watching Portia, I knew what I was in for. With two blades coming at me simultaneously, I realised how lethal the combination of wrist
action, speed and surprise can be. What really struck me, though, was the simplicity of Bell End’s actions. For the first time in my fencing life, I could see the vital importance of drawing my opponent with bluffs. Of course I’d bluffed before – it’s the nature of the game – but with two sabres coming at me I had to let go of preplanned strategies and trust my instinct.

I took a lot of hits, but I struck a few of my own as well, and when we took our masks off, Bell End did the most extraordinary thing. He bowed. Yes, he bowed at
me,
Calypso Kelly, and it was a low, graceful, princely bow too.

Portia was clapping.

‘Miss Kelly, I honour you. You’re a bloody fine little fencer girl, and you’ll see the Olympics if I have any control over it, mark my words. And we men from Capers don’t make idle threats.’

I was wet with sweat and slightly dazed by exhaustion and what Bell End had just told me. In the next minute Portia swept me up in a hug and spun me around. ‘Do you know how amazing you are?’ she asked, laughing.

‘I only know something amazing has just happened,’ I told her, laughing in what I believe is termed a giddy way.

Neither Portia nor I could come down to earth after what had happened. The rest of the day’s lessons passed in a blur. I was probably going to fail all my GCSEs, but I felt like I’d taken a leap into another part of my body and my life. I felt that new vistas awaited me, new exhilarating possibilities were beckoning.

Mad, mad, mad, fantastic fencing class today. Will tell all later. Are you going to Sheffield Saturday? Please say yes xxxxxxx C.

(For once I was too exhilarated to hold back on my kisses and just pressed ‘Send.’)

NO! 2 busy hanging out with u in Windsor REMEMBER! Freds xx

Whoops!

Actually, I am going to the fencing tournament in Sheffield, thought you would be too? x Calypso

(I limited myself to one kiss to make up for my earlier effusiveness.)

No, just doing the regionals and nationals. But good luck. Let’s make it Sunday, OK? Freds xxx

Deal! xxx Calypso

Did I mention that I have the most understanding and wise boyfriend in
all
of Christendom and beyond? Well, I have. My spirits soared once more. Even when Honey started making some poisonous jibe about my plebeian mother and Clapham, I riposted
with a pretty sharp comeback of my own. ‘Oh, bugger off, Honey.’

Sadly, Sarah was neither as wise nor as understanding as my boyfriend. She called me soon after and rattled on for what seemed like forever about how she was going to pick me up after classes on Saturday and take me back to London to see the house in Clapham. ‘Oh, Mumsy can’t wait for her Boojems to see the house.’

‘But Mumsy, I mean Sarah, there’s a really important fencing tournament in Sheffield on Saturday, which means we’ll be heading off at six in the morning and won’t be back until the evening. So you see –’

‘Oh, wonderful. I’ll come and watch.’

Again I felt horrible as I lied – but I still did. ‘That would be great, but the thing is they don’t let observers come. It’s a real shame. I was really looking forward to seeing the house.’

‘No, no, no, of course it’s more important that you attend this tournament. You know how much I support your fencing. Never mind. I’ll pick you up Sunday, darling. We’ll have a …’

I didn’t listen to the rest of her baby-talk babblings. I was just too wildly depressed. I mean I love Sarah and I wanted to support her over her midlife crisis with Bob but, well, I was soooo looking forward to seeing Freddie on Sunday that … oh, I don’t know, it was all a mess!

When I told my friends about my dilemma over brown slops in the refractory at dinner, though, Star said, ‘Just
explain to Sarah you’re meeting Freddie on Sunday. Parents hate thinking they’re inhibiting your social life.’

‘Exactly, darling,’ Indie agreed. ‘All ’rents are terrified that if they get in the way of your social life, you’ll become a friendless nobody.’

Everyone nodded knowingly.

‘Just explain about how exhausted you’ll be from the tournament and suggest lunch in Windsor instead. After lunch, simply say you’ve got to meet up with your boyfriend. She’ll understand,’ Indie naively reasoned.

If I knew Sarah as well as I thought I did – though lately she’d been rather odd – it would take more than straitjackets, armed police and attack dogs to prevent Sarah from meeting Freddie. You see, in my friends’ privileged world of Daddy’s plastic and Mummy’s contacts, freedom, like status, was taken for granted. And it was no use trying to explain to my friends that Sarah would see it as a mother’s duty to meet her daughter’s first boyfriend. And that’s without even taking into account that he was heir to the throne of Britain. No, Sarah would want to interview him and take photographs and everything.

As I looked around at my friends’ supportive faces, I knew they could never comprehend that Sarah might not be convinced to blithely say ta-ta and wave me off to meet up with my first official boyfriend. My friends’ parents would be mortified at the prospect of being seen as interfering or overprotective. Of course they want their
children to be safe and well, but they figure by age four, any intelligent child (and of course with their genes their children are all wildly intelligent – NOT) can sort out their own social lives. They had been serving alcohol at meals to their children since they were out of their high chairs and all thought it perfectly natural for them to help themselves to the cocktail shaker when at home. If you treat your children like civilised adults, they’ll behave like civilised adults went the philosophy. I was on the wrong side of a cultural barrier that would take a lifetime to explain. So I didn’t even try.

Indie called over to one of her bodyguards and as I observed him do his duty, piling the remainder of Indie’s brown slops into the pocket of his jacket, I suddenly thought, what if Sarah called me Boojie in front of Freds?
Quelle horreur!

Everyone knows that princes are renowned for their understanding and wisdom, but still, even princes must have their limits.

FIVE
My Knickers Were in a Right Twist

Later in the afternoon, I received an e-mail from Sarah which sent my spirits plummeting like a dead dove to the ground.

My Darling Boojie [what was it with this constant use of her old baby name for me, a name I had rejoiced at never hearing again after age five!],
I have arranged with Sister Constance to take you out on Sunday after Mass as we discussed. Just the two of us, won’t that be super?
Love,
Mumsy xxxxxx

My knickers were in a right twist now! The situation was far, far graver than I had first thought – and that was pretty grave indeed. My mother was regressing, or was it reverting? I’d read about this reverting business in the
Dummy’s Guide to Psycho Babble
only recently. According to the book, baby talk in adults is the final stage before dribbling, incontinence and compulsive thumb sucking set in. Any idea I had entertained about explaining my parents’ split to Freds were splattered like road kill now.

And then I realised that
Gladesdale
would hardly be thrilled about having a dribbling, nappy-wearing baby talker on their writing team, however lowbrow their show might be.

Ipso facto, the wise men and women of
Gladesdale
might well give Sarah her marching orders – or at least call for a pram to take her away. And as Bob earned, let me see, about, oh, nada, this would mean Sarah couldn’t pay my school fees. Had this been the case even a year ago, I would have worn bells on my ankles and bounced about like a folk dancer at a village fair. But now it was an entirely different story. I adored Saint Augustine’s, I adored my friends. I adored my life – even with my nemesis Honey plonked right in the middle of it.

I had to take decisive action. There would be no more messing about or talk of ‘creative endeavours.’ Bob would simply have to give up the madness of his Big One and take Sarah back to LA for clinical treatment. Preferably before Sunday.

Dear Daddy [I wasn’t going to ‘Bob’ him anymore. He needed to be reminded of his parental and husbandly duties.],
The situation is far graver than I first led you to believe. Come IMMEDIATELY, before
Gladesdale
calls for a pram to take Mummy off to the loony asylum for reverting. She’s not quite in diapers yet, but it’s only a matter of time, and then who will pay my fees? I’ll have to go to one of those Hollywood schools you’ve always hated so much. No, dearest padre, now is not the time for creative endeavours. Your wife is on the verge of requiring potty training and your daughter will be school-less! Tell me your flight times. Your loving daughter,
Calypso
PS: please make sure you come BEFORE SUNDAY! URGENT! BEFORE SUNDAY!