A Royal Mess (6 page)

‘Yes, but Bob wants her back,’ I told her. ‘He thinks she’s being unfair to him when he’s so close to finishing it,’ I explained, paraphrasing Bob’s e-mail.

‘Piffle,’ Indie scoffed.

‘Sarah
did
say she’d like you to have a sleepover party,’ Portia reminded me. That would cheer her up, having a house full of marauding teenagers.’

I gulped my hot chocolate at the thought and started choking, knowing that (in Sarah’s mind) a sleepover meant something very different than what it meant to my friends. Sarah would probably bake chocolate biscuits and have us all sitting in a circle, chatting about our innermost thoughts – with her. Unlike the other girls’ parents, who all lived in a different wing of their houses, Sarah would want to spend every moment of the night with us.

‘So? Let’s all go?’ piped up Clemmie, who adores parties almost as much as Tobias.

‘I’m in,’ agreed Arabella. ‘Where did you say she was living?’

‘Clapham,’ Honey announced loudly, slamming her tray down at our table. She made the word ‘Clapham’ sound like something a dog might cough up.

‘Clapham it is, then,’ Georgina declared. ‘Arabella? Clems? Indie? Star? Portia?’

‘Clapham it is,’ they all agreed.

‘Oh all right, then,’ sighed Honey. ‘Clapham it is,’ she conceded as if she’d even been invited or something.

‘I’ll see you in class,’ Portia said, unfolding her impossibly long legs and standing beside me. ‘And I’ll meet you during break in the salle, Calypso, yaah?’ she confirmed.

‘Yaah,’ I agreed. ‘I hope Bell End is up for getting us into shape,’ I mused.

Portia leant over and lightly kissed my cheek. ‘Don’t worry, darling. It’s Bell End’s glory and reputation on the
line as much as ours. And don’t worry about your parents. I’m sure it’s all going to be fine. They’re sooo obviously the perfect couple.’

I smiled and said, ‘of course,’ because that’s what you have to do when people reassure you – make them feel that they’ve really helped. Especially after everything Portia had been through. Just the same, Bob’s e-mail hadn’t exactly encouraged me. What if Sarah wasn’t overreacting? What if Bob really was being insensitive? It happens to artists. Only a few weeks ago I felt Star was putting her music before me, but then again I am prone to extreme bouts of insecurity. The truth was, I couldn’t have felt less confident, but I hoped against hope that Portia was right.

I was just about to say my own laters to the group when my txt alert sounded.

Wish it was Sat 2day! Freds xxx

Oh the joy of having a boyfriend to distract you from the horrors and madness of ’rental separations! Suddenly, Bob and his Big One and Sarah’s flight to Clapham were the last things on my mind. The ’rentals would just have to grow up and look after themselves. I couldn’t be responsible for them
all
my life. Also, I had far more pressing matters to deal with, like registration, clearing up my room, chapel, lessons, fencing and most of all, my lovely, lovely Freds.

There was no way I could enter an essay-writing
competition about my personal pain after his txt. I was walking on air. And then I remembered I had agreed to meet Sarah
and
Freds on Saturday. Star, who had leaned over to read my txt, gave me a look of sympathy because she knew I’d agreed to go to the house with Sarah on Saturday.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘Be in two places at once,’ I joked, but actually there was nothing funny about it. Whatever I did, two people were going to be hurt – one of them me. The essay suddenly seemed like an increasingly less absurd idea.

FOUR
Bell End Goes Double Bonkers!

Bell End had taken over for Professor Sullivan while he took his sabbatical. We’d had our doubts about him initially, just, well, because he was as different from our suave and debonair professor as it is possible to be. His name wasn’t really Bell End, it was Mr Wellend, but because he was a bit of an idiot, Portia and I had started calling him Bell End – which in England is the name for the end of a boy’s whatsit. He was loud, brash, coarse and South African, but there was no doubting his determination to whip us into shape. As the only two serious sabreurs, Portia and I were his big hope. At least that was Portia’s reasoning.

We entered the salle at lunch to find it empty, though.

‘You don’t think he’s forgotten us?’ I asked, plonking myself on a bench. If he didn’t turn up, we wouldn’t even be able to practise, such is the policing of the British
Fencing Association. The school would be fined thousands of pounds.

We only spoke to him at break, and he was madly wound up about it. We’ve already got a tournament this Saturday in Sheffield and he said he’d drive us.’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’ I squealed with excitement, jumping up and down on the spot. Sarah definitely wouldn’t want me to miss a tournament, and Freds would be there too! All my problems would be solved.

‘God, no nerves on your side, then?’ Portia said, surprised by the level of my excitement.

‘Oh God, no, I will be nervous, It’s just that, well, we’ll get to see Billy and Freds now.’

‘Billy definitely,’ she agreed, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of seeing her boyfriend. ‘I spoke to him earlier. But I got the impression from him that Freds wasn’t going. You know how he loves to visit his gran whenever he can. And with his security situation, Billy reckons Freds might figure it’s not worth it. I mean, the tournaments are more preparatory than essential. Also, Sheffield is like a four-hour drive, and while girls are seeded out by three thirty or so, the boys sometimes don’t finish until seven or even later.’

My face fell.

‘But darling, don’t worry. It will still be a fantastic day out for Sarah.’

‘What?’

‘Sarah. You had planned to check out her new house in
Clapham,’ Portia reminded me. ‘But she’s sure to want to come to the tournament, isn’t she?’

I nodded, trying not to betray myself, but there was no more speculation, as that was when we heard Bell End enter the salle. He was laughing like a, well, like a bit of a maniac actually.

‘Come on, then, you big girls’ blouses (his favourite term for us), git out here and let’s see what you’re made of,’ he called out to us.

We scrambled into our fencing gear and rushed out to the salle, and without a word being spoken, we got straight onto our stretches.

While we stretched and lunged and lunged some more, Bell End (in full fencing gear) roamed the salle, slashing the air with his sabre. His muscular little body was as stiff as a board as he muttered to himself about new world orders and standards being set and met. Portia and I did our best to stop giggling, but we weren’t entirely successful.

Then after ten minutes he suddenly yelled out, ‘Jerzy Pawlowski!’ His voice bounced off the walls.

Portia and I stopped our lunges and looked around the salle, expecting to see some crony of Bell End’s entering. But no, it was just Bell End being mad.

We went back to our lunges.

‘Jerzy Pawlowski! He yelled again – only louder this time, so that his voice bounced around the walls for a good while longer. ‘Greatest sabreur that ever lived!’ he yelled so loudly the words echoed back.

It’s best to ignore teachers when they start cracking up, otherwise you can end up being showered in blues, or questioned by therapists, or involved in an investigation after they cart them off to the loony bin. I moved on to my supermans, as did Portia.

Won the world title outright three years in a row, he did! In 1957, ‘58 and ‘59. Took the gold in ‘68 at the Olympics, and with the Polish team he took gold from the Hungarians in ‘61, ‘62 and ‘63.’

I looked at Portia and she looked at me. Our warm-ups were done, and we were awaiting instructions, but all Bell End did was repeat the name ‘Jerzy Pawlowski!’ over and over again.

It was going to be a bloody nuisance if our fencing master chose now to crack up. We’d never get through to the Nationals. Ignoring Bell End, Portia and I stood quietly, waiting for him to finish.

‘Hungary still hasn’t recovered.’

‘Heavens,’ said Portia just so he knew we were listening.

Bell End humphed. ‘How many ways of moving forward do you think Jerzy had, eh?’

‘Erm … one, sir,’ I hazarded. I mean, as a sabreur you spend your life practising moving forward. It’s the most repetitive exercise you do. Moving forward and then moving forward over and over again. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that there’s only one way of moving forward … and that’s, well … it’s moving forward, basically.

Portia looked at me and raised one eyebrow in that special aristocratic way she has.

‘Eight!’ Bell End yelled, slashing the air with his sabre. Again, his voice bounced around the salle. His face had gone purple too, like he might, be about to have an apoplectic fit. I wasn’t sure about Portia, but I was crap at first aid.

‘Eight different ways of moving forward,’ Bell End declared in his booming South African voice. ‘Footwork of a dancer and every way of moving forward cunningly calculated to provoke a different reaction from his opponent, eh? Eh? Eh?’

Clearly a response was required. ‘Eight, you say?’ I replied in an upbeat, interested sort of way. Nutters like Bell End like you taking an interest in their mad rants. ‘Heck, that is a lot, isn’t it, sir?’

‘Yes, blast you!’ he yelled, fiercely slashing his blade in fury. ‘It is impressive. More than impressive, even. Man was a genius! A genius! Eight. Think about it, eh? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, EIGHT!’ He punctuated each number with a forward lunge – each looked pretty similar to me.

‘Oh,’ I said quietly. ‘So he was quite, erm, prolific, then?’ I added, showing him I was all ears and keen as mustard on this Jerzy chap.

Bell End glared at me and pressed the point of his sabre into the floor to flex it. I began to feel afraid.

‘Sabre is like poker –’ he started, but like the mad blurter
I am, I interjected. ‘Professor Sullivan said it was a physical game of chess.’

‘I’m talking about
bluff,
girl. Bluff. Bluff, damn you! Go on, say the word!’

I looked at Portia and Portia looked at me, and we both knew what had to be done. ‘Erm, bluff, sir,’ we muttered.

This seemed to pacify him, though. He began to speak to us more gently. You’re both excellent bloody fencers. Excellent for interschool matches, that is, but you’re playing tournament now.’ And then he started yelling again. Tournament! Do you
really
know what that means? It’s not like a cosy friendly between schools with cheerful salutes and etiquette, followed by finger sandwiches and tea.’

I didn’t interrupt, but in all my time at interschool fencing matches I’d never been offered a single finger sandwich. A glass of juice and some crisps were as good as it ever got.

Bell End was on a roll, though. ‘No, you’ve got tantrums, threats, bullying, and more important, the bloody-minded focus of girls who have been waiting their whole life to rip you to shreds and dance on your entrails. And on top of that you’ve got all those scouts and FIE spies, wandering about, lurking, spooking. Then, of course, there’s the fan clubs.’

‘Fan clubs?’ I blurted as an image of cheerleaders like we have in the States popped into my mind. Pom-poms, cheers of support as they cried:

‘Give me C!’
‘C!’

‘Give me an A!’
‘A!’

‘Give me an L!’
‘L!’

‘Give me a Y!’
‘Y!’

‘Give me a P!’
‘P!’

‘Give me an S!’
‘S!’

‘Give me an O!’
‘O!’

‘What does it spell?’

‘CALYPSO! Yaaaaah!’

It seemed very unlikely in England.

‘You mean fans for the fencers, Mr Wellend?’ Because however unlikely cheerleaders might be, I was quite excited about the idea of a fan club. I’d never imagined fencers to have fan clubs. I know polo players and footballers have them, but fencing had always seemed to me like the chess club of sports. I wondered if they’d write me fan letters.