A Royal Mess (9 page)

Sister Regina sat up front with Bell End and took control of the radio, which she set to Radio One and started singing along to an old Britney Spears song. When I say singing along, I mean ‘nun-singing,’ because obviously she didn’t get to hear that many pop songs in the convent, so she just sang ‘la-la-la-diddlie-dah’ to the tune.

Bell End had brought along a few cushions to prop her up on, so she could see over the dashboard. Portia nudged me, ‘Do you think he might be a big softy after all?’ she whispered.

‘No!’ I told her firmly, rubbing my arm, which was still bruised from yesterday’s training session with our two-sabre-wielding maniac of a fencing master.

Most of the journey, Bell End prepared us for what awaited us at the other end. ‘It’s not all nicey-nicey like interschool. You’ve got to expect all sorts. You’ve got those that play dirty and those that play clean in a nasty sort of way. Just like in poker, they’ll use anything but skill to bluff or intimidate as they see fit. And another thing, you’ve got to ignore the Great Badger Rapists.’

‘Sir?’ I asked.

Them pratts with GBR written on their backs.’

‘But why?’ I asked, because, truly, that was all I dreamed of, being one of those pratts with KELLY GBR (Great Britain) emblazoned across
my
back.

‘Because you only get that honour if you’ve made the National Squad and are fencing internationally,’ explained Bell End. ‘Only there are some that award themselves the honour. I keep telling you, fencing’s not all nicey-nicey.’

‘But that’s cheating!’ I cried out indignantly over the top of Sister Regina’s la-la-diddlie-dahing.

‘Pathetic, that’s what it is. These pratts get themselves colours made up for tournament intimidation. They figure it’ll scare the bejesus out of you.’

‘How elaborate,’ Portia remarked. ‘Elaborate’ was Portia’s ultimate toff put down. By elaborate she meant, scheming, low-life, social-climbing pond scum.

‘That’s one word for it, Briggs,’ Bell End chuckled. I think he was starting to pick up on Portia’s aristocratic codes, Mistress of the Understatement that she was.

‘Then of course they’ll have their fan clubs, you know, family, friends and the like. Mates from school, anyone they can dig up. Some of them even pay groupies to cheer them on. Even the bravest sabreur can be thrown when their opponent’s end of the piste is full of a cheering squad yelling for blood, and your end’s empty,’ he said as if speaking from personal experience. ‘You girls will be right today with Sister here and me, but there will be times when the lonely fear hits you, when you don’t even have
someone to plug in your body wire and they’ve got people chanting, ‘Cut the guts out of the South African wanker! Only being South African he pronounced it
winker.’

Luckily Sister was loudly diddle-dee-deeing to a song, so she didn’t hear the profanity. Portia and I looked at one another. Clearly Bell End had had some painful personal experience in this area.

He elaborated a bit more about the abuse we could expect. Portia and I both sneered though at the thought of such obvious and puerile intimidation tactics. Star and the others had
begged
to come and watch us, but we agreed that we’d be too stressed out and that, if anything, it might put us off.

I’d taken the precaution of telling Sarah that they didn’t allow anyone to watch, because the thought of her running around the piste crying out ‘Go, Boojie!’ was too much even for the most dutiful daughter.

‘So, you’ve got to shut down emotionally. Understood? Think with your brain, move with your body, slam ‘em with your blade,’ Bell End insisted. That’s your business. Your
only
business. The rest of the carry-on, the taunting of the opponents’ fans, the verbal abuse they’ll sling at you – none of that matters. Just GFTB, git it? Go for the Bollocks! Let that be your battle cry.’

Since Bell End’s arrival at Saint Augustine’s, GFTB had slipped into our everyday speech. Portia and I often giggled when Bell End shouted it out at us when it was just the two of us fencing. For a start, as girls we
didn’t have bollocks. Also, I don’t think Sister Constance or our parents would appreciate our young minds being exposed to such obscenities. We, after all, were the créme de la créme of teenage girls.

Sister Regina, who’d happily been la-la-la-diddlie-dah-ing to a heavy rap song, was horrified. ‘Oooh, Mr Wellend, language.’

‘Sorry, Sister,’ he apologised, his face red with embarrassment. Actually, the song Sister had been nun-singing along to was positively littered with obscenities, all of which celebrated the joys of sinning.

‘And don’t forget, girls,’ Sister shouted out over another filthy rap song about gunning down rivals, ‘I’ll be there, praying for you. A decade of the rosary is worth a thousand fan clubs. All this artifice that Mr Wellend has warned you about will melt away under the divine intervention of Our Lady, girls.
Always
remember that.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ we agreed.

‘And if they get too crude, I shall wave my rosary at them in defiance, I will.’

That should have them trembling in their boots,’ Bell End muttered under his breath.

‘But honestly, Mr Wellend, I hope you won’t mind if I call out a little
hoorah
! now and then if the girls get a particularly good goal or such like?’

Bless. I could have reached over and cuddled her. Nuns are so sweetly unworldly.

‘No, I’m sure that would be most appropriate, Sister…’
I think even Bell End was a bit choked up by her innocence.

‘Good, because I do like a nice little cheer, Mr Wellend. Revs up the engines, it does.’

We made good time and arrived at the BFA Sheffield Open venue a little earlier than planned. But there were already dozens of other vehicles there; some of them like ours, with their school motifs on them, others just random cars and mini-buses, which had presumably transported the dreaded fan clubs. Bell End pointed out that most people would have come by train. That meant there was going to be a
lot
of people at the tournament. I think that’s when it really hit me just how defining an event this was going to be in my fencing career.

Portia and I pulled our heavy kits out of the mini-bus while Bell End lifted our little nun out of the car. At four foot nothing, she was like a doll. One that was becoming increasingly wound up with excitement!

And that was when all Bell End’s pep talks turned into a worthless heap of rubbish.

Because that was when I heard the word ‘Boojie!’ as my mother appeared out of nowhere, just as we entered the building. ‘Isn’t this exciting? Oh, let me look at you,’ she cried, grabbing my cheeks and pinching them. ‘You’ll knock them dead!’ She was incandescent with pride.

I, on the other hand, was incandescent with quite another emotion altogether.

SEVEN
My Tragic Fan Club

It was difficult to make it even to the table near the entrance, where we had to have our names ticked off for the pools. Apart from the crowds, Sarah was wrapped around my body like a limpet, and Sister Regina was hanging off my fencing kit, chirping, ‘Just wait till I tell all the other nuns about this. I know it’s sinful, but I’ll revel in their envy, I will.’

Portia managed to have her name ticked off and made her way imperiously through the throngs of people, many of whom we’d soon be slamming with our blades. Everyone was just mingling and chatting amicably, which made me doubt Bell End’s fearsome stories of what we’d be up against, although I did see a few fencers with GBR on their backs wandering about the hall. Bell End nudged me. ‘See what I mean? GBR my arse, they’re Great Badger Rapists, you mark my words. But they think if you see that you’ll be intimidated.’

‘Pathetic,’ I agreed as I finally made it to the desk, weighed down with the twin burden of my mother and my
dread of what she might do to embarrass me. Bell End slapped my back. I think he was being supportive but, unaware of his own strength, he winded me, and I fell onto the book with all the names written on it.

‘Christ Almighty, look what we’ve got here,’ some Hoorah Henry joked to his mateage, and they all laughed loudly.

‘Don’t you get cheeky, gentlemen, or I’ll have your master on to you, I will,’ Sister Regina threatened, raising herself up to her full four feet. Nuns can be surprisingly imperious and menacing, especially where boys are concerned. They reddened at her threat and muttered, ‘Sorry, Sister.’

Any menace her threat may have held, however, was immediately dissolved by Sarah, who threw her arms around me and told them to leave me alone. ‘Big bullies!’

I unwound her arms from around my neck and looked her in the eye. ‘Look, Sarah, seriously, you can’t do that here. I’m not five anymore.’

‘You’ll always be my little, widdle girl, Calypso,’ she promised me with another cheek pinch – as if this might actually cheer me up.

After finally having my name ticked off, I chased after Portia, who was already nearing the changing rooms.

‘See you later, widdle, widdle girl,’ the Hoorah Henrys called after me. Sarah, who was tagging along, didn’t say anything, but I think she knew she’d landed me in it.

It was all I could do to shake her off at the changing
rooms. Fortunately, Sister Regina had already been seduced by the tea table. If you ever wanted to kidnap a nun, all you’d have do is to offer them a nice cup of tea and they’d go anywhere.

‘You sure you don’t want me to help you change into your fencing outfit, darling?’ Sarah asked at the changing rooms.

I shut the door on her with a firm ‘No, thank you.’

‘I take it you weren’t expecting Sarah?’ Portia put it to me. She didn’t look too happy about it, either.

‘Of course not. I told her they didn’t allow non-fencers, but, well, she’s lived in America for a long time. Mothers sort of learn how to push pretty hard over there, you see.’

‘I know it sounds horrible, but I am sooo glad we didn’t bring a fan club. I would be ten times more nervous with Star and the others watching us.’

I agreed.

There was a crowd of other girls kitting up, so we let the conversation drop. No one spoke to us, and we didn’t attempt to speak to them. Portia and I didn’t need to say anything to one another, either. It was quite clear that we were both scared out of our wits.

Once we were kitted up we wandered back out into the maelstrom of the hall, which had twice the number of people crowded into it compared to when we’d first arrived.

We couldn’t see Bell End, although I spotted Sarah chatting to Sister Regina by the tea table. Portia and I looked about to see what we should be doing, but everything
was utter chaos. There were loads of random announcements coming over the loudspeaker, which further added to the confusion.

‘If there are any qualified presidents in the hall today who have not volunteered, could they please come forward, as we are short of referees today.’

Bell End suddenly appeared out of nowhere and sprinted swiftly towards the other end of the hall like he was about to receive another Olympic medal. Sister Regina started to clap and cheer him on. Sarah, looking a little dazed, joined her.

‘Let’s do some stretches,’ I suggested to Portia in the hope that in doing a few low lunges, Sarah wouldn’t be able to spot us.

‘Can Simon Tyler please report to sign in, as you have not yet registered?’ blared a voice over the loudspeaker.

‘Everything seems so disorganised,’ Portia remarked as people stepped over us. ‘I don’t have a clue what we’re meant to be doing. There’s no boards about pools or where we’re meant to be fencing, nothing.’

‘Attention!’ the announcer called over the loudspeaker. The girls’ pools will be starting shortly. And I repeat, Simon Tyler, report to registration, NOW!’ Then the names for the girls’ pools were rattled off.

This is it,’ I said to Portia as several names were called and asked to assemble at piste 5. Portia’s name came up in the next lot of pools being held on piste 6. My name was called to the pools being held at piste 7.

Well, should we shake hands or something, do you think?’ I blurted in that special idiotic way I have.