A Royal Mess

by Tyne O'Connell

  ‘How dare you!’ Georgina spat, diving off the floor and looming over Honey’s bed, her eyes flashing with fury.

  Miss Bibsmore interjected, placing her stick between Georgina and Honey. ‘Soft toy or no, he’s a full fee-paying student at this school and the only other student, apart from you, Miss O’Hare, in my dormitory what ’as a drinking problem.’

  ‘Tobias has given up drinking,’ Georgina assured Miss Bibsmore earnestly. ‘He took himself off to detox over half term.’

  Miss Bibsmore thought about this and nodded. ‘Well, I hope the treatment sticks an’ all, Miss Castle Orpington, and that’s genuine, that is. But Mr Tobias isn’t my concern on this occasion. So, Miss O’Hare, you can come down with me to Sister Constance.’

  This is outrageous. You have singled me out for persecution since you first laid eyes on me.’

  I could relate to that, as that was exactly what Honey had done to me.

  Miss Bibsmore cackled. Well, you were the one wot told me that you sued the last person what treated you like everyone else.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Honey grunted as she started punching numbers into her phone. Well I’m calling my lawyers! There are witnesses here who have just heard you admit you’re singling me out –’

  Miss Bibsmore swooped on the little gem-like phone and pocketed it. ‘You can call your lawyers after you’ve spoken to Sister. Now up you get, one, two, three.’

  The rest of us sat in stunned silence as Miss Bibsmore bustled the loudly protesting Honey from the room. We waited all of a minute before bursting into raucous laughter.

  The maddest thing was that we still had the rest of our Body Shop Specials piled amongst our tuck feast.

  SIX

  Be Warned! Life’s NOT All Nicey-Nicey

  Naturally, I couldn’t follow the advice of my friends to overlap my meeting with Sarah with my meeting with Freddie. After careful thought I decided even Portia’s flawless plan left room for random ’rental disobedience. I knew how much Sarah was longing to meet Freds. Formal lunches sounded all well and good, but formality and Sarah were just not a natural fit. I had no choice. Imagine Freds, heir to the throne of England, meeting my baby-talking-reverting mother? He’d run a mile – with Sarah following him in hot pursuit.

  No, as dismal a prospect as it was, I would have to put Sarah first and cancel Freds. I tried and tried to think of an alternative, but I owed it to Sarah to be there for her in her time of need. There was no way out. As I composed the txt the next evening, little tears banked up behind my eyes at the thought that I wasn’t going to see Freds on Sunday and feel his lovely lips on mine, or smell the lovely lemony smell of his neck.

  Soz, but Sunday isn’t go to work, the madres in town and wants me all to herself. Next Saturday though promise, xxxx Calypso

  I watched the screen of my mobile for what seemed like an eternity, but there was no response, and eventually I had to go off to study period. I told myself that he was obviously wildly busy … either that or furious and planning to dump me.

  By Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., when my alarm woke us for our drive up to the tournament in Sheffield, Freds still hadn’t responded to my txts. Yes, tragic as it sounds, I’d sent several txts because each time I told myself he was probably in divs (that’s what they call lessons at Eades) or chapel, or well, just very, very busy loading up his iPod. After my recent phone txt face-off with Freddie before half-term – which turned out to be all Honey’s fault – I wasn’t going to let any sort of misunderstanding between us happen again.

  After Freds’ reaction to Honey selling that mobile phone snap to the tabloids, Star has always thought Freddie was overly keen on himself. She’s always telling me I’m too good for him, but then she’s so fiercely loyal she doesn’t think any boy is good enough for me. I hadn’t told Star that I had chucked meeting Freds on Sunday altogether because I didn’t want him to meet my regressing madre. She would not have been impressed by that, nor, deep down, was, I, but… well, I could hardly have Sarah baby talking to the heir to the throne, could I? In the past three days she’d called me diddums, like, nine times! Diddums? What was I, a cat?

  On Saturday morning, Portia and I dressed in our jeans and hoodies in the en suite so as not to wake Honey, who was snoring so loudly, I swear, it’s a miracle she doesn’t ever wake herself up. Then we rushed down the stairs with our torches and out across the damp lawn to the nun’s house, where the tiny little form of Sister Regina was already at the door waiting for us in an overexcited state. She was hopping from one foot to the other.

  It had been decided by Sister Constance that one of the nuns should chaperone us to the tournament, and so they’d had a raffle and the lucky winner was Sister Regina. After a lot of nun-ish clucking and cuddling and telling us how all the other nuns were sick with jealously, she led us into the kitchen of the convent, which hadn’t been updated since the fifties.

  She’d cooked us a full English breakfast, bless her. Well, you’ll need the nutrition with all that swordplay you’ll be doing. And I’ve packed tuna sandwiches for the journey!’

  ‘Oh, that’s really sweet, Sister,’ Portia and I told her.

  ‘Only, don’t say a word to Sister Michael, because it was her tin of tuna I stole.’

  ‘Sister!’ we chastised.

  ‘Oh, stop. We each get a little treat in the weekly shop, see, only I always choose cigarettes,’ she explained, dropping her voice to a low whisper.

  ‘Sister, that’s very, very naughty. Now we’ll feel guilty,’ Portia teased. ‘Poor Sister Michael.’

  ‘Oh, shush,’ she said, cackling wickedly as she bustled busily about the kitchen, dishing out the eggs, bacon, sausages, toast and baked beans onto the old, chipped green plates. ‘Sister Michael won’t even remember she ordered it. She’s about to reach her century in another month, she is.’

  Wow!’ I exclaimed. That’s … totally cool.’

  ‘Yes, and they’ll be a big tea with scones and cream and cucumber and tuna sandwiches. We’re all looking forward to it, but while the body may be strong, the mind’s not all it could be in Sister Michael’s case, bless her. Last night when we were playing animal snap, she didn’t get one hand in. Even the chicken had her flummoxed and she always gets the chicken – always. Anyway, she wouldn’t mind. Truth is, all of us nuns are very proud of you, and I’m sure no one could begrudge two lovely girls like you a little tuna. Now eat up and stop fussing.’

  We were just scraping our plates when we heard Bell End knocking on the door of the cottage. It was only six o’clock now and still dark, so all four of us used our torches to make our way to the school mini-bus. Bell End gallantly led Sister Regina through the wet grass. ‘Isn’t this exciting, girls?’ she kept exclaiming. ‘Oh, Mr Wellend, I do hope they do well.’

  Bell End had already packed our kit. ‘Can’t trust you bloody girls to remember your own heads,’ he’d insisted when we’d offered to help the day before. ‘No, leave it to the master; at least that way I’ll know everything’s in order.’

  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 Ho
orah 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.’