by T. S. Easton
‘It’s Italian,’ Dad said.
‘So is pasta. And that doesn’t cost £799. Even from Ocado.’
‘Fleur, come on,’ Dad said. ‘We’re not looking at helmets.’
Dad bought me some more Lycra, including a rainproof coat. ‘I’m not going out when it’s raining,’ I said. But I was glad of the Lycra. I could wear it for boxing. He also got me some special wrap-around shades that I had to admit were pretty cool. I looked at the price tag and raised an eyebrow. They were expensive. Not Italian-helmet expensive. But expensive enough. One thing’s for sure: boxing is a lot cheaper than cycling.
It didn’t end there, though. We bought an overpriced drinks bottle with the SKY logo on it. Then the metal rack to attach it to the bike, then an overpriced puncture repair kit, some energy-drink tablets and a pack of ruinously expensive protein bars that looked like the sort of thing Bear Grylls might pretend to eat when the cameras were on him before sloping off to the local Chickos. Dad also bought me a tube of cream.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘You see, on the bike, when you ride for a long time … bits rub against other bits.’
‘Like the gears?’
‘Not on the bike,’ Dad said, looking away. ‘On you. It’s for chafing.’
‘What, behind my knees?’
‘Um, maybe there too.’
The penny dropped. ‘You mean this is for …?’ Dad nodded, unable to speak. He was bright red. ‘You wear this?’
‘Yes, obviously in slightly different … areas. And you might find there are extra … areas you might want to use it on.’
I looked at Dad and waited until I had his full attention before I spoke. ‘Thank you for this. On your advice I will take the cream. But let us never have this conversation again. Or anything like it.’
‘Agreed,’ Dad said, seemingly relieved he’d fulfilled his fatherly duties, at least until my wedding and he walked me down the aisle which, presumably, he’d do very smoothly and without discomfort. The last thing Dad got me were some special pedals. The sort you clip your shoes into. He said it would improve my performance. ‘Why go to so much effort and spend so much money to make it easier?’ I said. ‘If you want easy then just drive.’ Dad ignored me and picked up a pair of the shoes with the clips on. I looked at the price tag.
‘HOW much are these shoes?’
Friday nights meant film club with Blossom. Without our regular visits to Battle, I didn’t see a lot of Pip. And Blossom told me he would often not go either, disappearing at the weekends with some vague excuse. She became quite curious about what he was up to. I invited them both over one Friday in early July so we could hang out together and study watch films, but in the end Blossom had to pull out due to some crisis with Magnet and the Socialist Action Group so it turned out to be just me and Pip.
I’d discovered there were a lot of movies about boxing on Netflix. We ended up having a bit of a marathon. We saw Rocky II. Then we watched Million Dollar Baby, Raging Bull and Rumble in the Jungle, which turned out not to be a movie, but a documentary about a boxing match between Ali and Joe Frazier. I really liked Ali’s boots.
There was one thing all these films had in common. At some point, each protagonist is on the ropes. Down on their luck. Everything set against them, when suddenly they come back and triumph against the odds. All except Million Dollar Baby, that is. Hilary Swank’s character achieves amazing success, then breaks her kneck and dies. The only boxing film with a female protagonist and they kill her off.
As the credits rolled, I looked over at Pip, who’d been very quiet. I assumed he’d dropped off, but he was wide awake and crying.
‘Oh Pip,’ I said, leaning over to give him a hug.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not sure why I’m crying so much. I’ve just felt a bit down. The battle rehearsals aren’t going well. I try to stand my ground but when they come charging up I just have this mad panic and next thing I know I’m in the wood and people are calling out my name and telling me everything’s OK.’
‘Do you want me to come tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘You’ve got boxing,’ he said.
‘I can skip it,’ I said. ‘I’ll build a hovel and watch you hacking at Norman scum.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
Poor Pip. It’s tough to get off the ropes once you’re there. I suppose in real life people don’t beat the odds very often, however hard they fight.
Battle
I kept my promise to Pip and went to Battle the next day, although I won’t pretend I wasn’t a bit disappointed not to be going boxing. Particularly when Blossom and I were just hanging around in the hovel and waiting for things to get started.
‘Can you look after my sword and shield while I go to the loo?’ Pip asked. ‘I might be a while. Pre-battle nerves.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Don’t tell Garnet,’ he said, looking around nervously. ‘We’re not supposed to let civilians touch our weapons. But they’re too heavy to take all the way to the Portaloos.’
Blossom tried to pick up the shield. ‘Oof,’ she said. ‘That is heavy. You’re stronger than you look, Pip.’ He stalked off, leaving us alone in the hovel. It had been drizzling most of the day and there weren’t many people about. Blossom had done a couple of lacklustre ghost walks and I’d whittled another wooden willy-spoon. A brief burst of sunlight swept across the scene but then another dark cloud loomed overhead and more rain spattered down on the mud outside the door. The hovel wasn’t entirely waterproof and I was glad of the wimple. I shivered.
‘See,’ Blossom said. ‘Isn’t this better than boxing?’
‘Hmm,’ I said. I wondered what exercise they’d be doing right now, and how much I’d feel it next week. Missing a session made a big difference to your fitness and Ricky always pushed you harder the next time as a punishment. I heard footsteps approaching, quickly, someone coming to escape the rain perhaps. Two figures burst in through the door.
‘Good morn, Lords Thane … Oh crap, not you two,’ Blossom said. The newcomers squinted at us, their eyes adjusting to the gloomy interior. Then they both laughed explosively. It was the Meninists, of course. Ryan whipped out his phone and took a picture. I gave him the finger.
‘Don’t remember seeing anyone doing that on the Bayeux Tapestry,’ he said.
‘You ladies look … AMAZING,’ William said. ‘This is just the best thing ever.’
‘Oh why don’t you just bog off,’ Blossom sighed.
‘Isn’t this just what we’ve been saying?’ William said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘The menfolk are out there, fighting battles for the future of the country, and you’re in here, cooking, cleaning … whittling,’ he said, double-taking at the wooden object I held in my hand.
‘We could fight if we wanted,’ Blossom said. ‘Isn’t that right, Fleur?’
‘Yeah, we could take those Normans down,’ I said.
‘What are you going to fight with?’ Ryan asked. ‘You going to throw a cooking pot at them?’
‘How about this!’ Blossom said, bending to pick up Pip’s sword. She held it aloft, whacking the thatched ceiling above and releasing a shower of dust and spiders. I could sense she was really straining to hold it, but her determination, and her placard-wielding muscles, betrayed nothing.
The Meninists took a step back. ‘Careful,’ William said. ‘That looks sharp.’
‘Come on, Fleur,’ Blossom said. ‘Let’s repulse the invaders.’ She nodded to the shield. I shrugged and stepped over to grab it. It was heavy. Very heavy. But the hours in the gym had paid off. I lifted it and stood beside Blossom. I had no sword, but I did still have the wooden willy. I thrust it out at the Meninists who were looking increasingly nervous.
‘I think we should advance,’ Blossom said.
‘Fleur can hardly lift that shield,’ William said, ‘let alone walk with it.’
‘There was another woman they underestimated,’ Blossom said, narrowing her eyes. ‘
A humble woman who shunned glamour and was mocked for it. A woman who said what she thought needed to be said, even though it lost her millions of votes and cost her the ultimate prize.’
‘She means Susan Boyle,’ I said.
‘I mean Hillary Clinton,’ Blossom corrected.
‘Ah, Hillary Clinton’s a loser,’ Ryan sneered. I was suddenly filled with a wave of anger. I lifted the shield, my shoulder muscles burning with the effort, then I screamed.
‘YOU’RE THE LOSER!’ I sprang forward, brandishing the willy. Blossom stumbled forward beside me, waving the sword. Our enemies’ eyes bulged and they turned to flee. Out into the rain we went, chasing the Meninists down the concourse. A few bewildered tourists stopped to watch us charge by, most of them grinning, assuming it was all part of the show.
But it wasn’t part of the show, it was deadly serious. We chased them all the way to the gift shop and they scrambled inside to safety. We stopped outside, not wanting to be seen. We were given a lot of leeway at Battle, but I thought English Heritage might draw the line at chasing paying visitors with wooden dildos.
‘Oh hell,’ Blossom hissed. ‘Garnet!’
I stopped and turned to see Garnet descending the steps from the tearoom. He hadn’t seen us. ‘Quick, in here!’ I yelled, ushering Blossom towards a row of Portaloos. Two were occupied but the middle one was free. With some difficulty, we managed to cram ourselves and our weapons in and shut the door until the danger had passed.
Drunk with our triumph of repulsing the invading Meninist army, we settled down to watch Pip take part in his second battle. We saw him drag his sword and shield with difficulty over to his place in the shield wall. Once more we saw the Normans come charging up the hill. Once more we heard Pip’s shriek of terror and watched him sprinting for the trees, which Blossom and I had taken to calling Pip’s Wood.
As we walked to the car park later we commiserated with Pip.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I bet loads of soldiers ran off in terror.’
‘No, they didn’t,’ Pip said. ‘That’s the thing about the Saxon shield wall. It held, no one ran off. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a Saxon.’
‘It’s not real, Pip,’ Blossom reminded him as we reached the car. The rain had mostly stopped now but there was still the occasional spot. ‘You do know you’re not going to have your skull cleaved in twain?’
‘I just don’t feel like I fit in,’ he said glumly as he folded himself into the car. ‘I’m not right for it.’ We went to Chickos to cheer Pip up and he did an impression of Garnet that made me laugh so much Coke came out of my nose. I liked my dinner-dates with George, playing at being an adult. But sometimes it was fun to hang out with people my own age and just relax and laugh and shriek and make stupid jokes.
Fleur ‘Broken’ Waters
‘Oi Killa, you pregnant?’ Simon yelled across the gym as I rested, chest heaving after just completing about three hundred burpees.
‘What? No!’
‘Cos it looks like your waters broke,’ he said. I looked down to see a large pool of sweat had collected beneath me. Everyone laughed.
‘What’s your excuse?’ I said, pointing to his own sweat puddle. ‘Weak pelvic floor?’ Everyone laughed again and Simon winked at me.
‘It’s not a bloody biology lesson,’ Ricky yelled as the buzzer went. ‘Alternate lunges, two minutes, go!’
I was still finding the training hard, so hard it made me feel sick. As Ricky often said, ‘It doesn’t get easier, you can just push yourself more.’ But after each session I felt exhilarated. I was clearly getting fitter, with the boxing, the cycling and the running, but I could also see my body was changing. I had proper definition in my arms and shoulders now. My tummy was flat and showing the first, faint signs of a six-pack, thanks to all the sit-ups Ricky made us do. (‘It’s called an abdomen, not a flabdomen!’) The biggest improvement was in my punching, which I could tell was getting much more powerful. We did a lot of exercises where we all had to stand face to face with a partner and punch the other’s pads while moving backwards and then changing when you hit the wall and doing the same thing walking forward.
I was generally partnered with Helpful Dan, or Joe, because they were the smallest men, and as time went on I got more and more comments like, ‘Good power,’ ‘Nice one,’ ‘Oof,’ and so on. The key was always rolling into the punch, getting what weight I had behind it.
My big problem was my guard. I could punch hard, particularly with my right backhand, and I had a good uppercut, as Joe had discovered, but I’d always drop my left glove while I was doing it. It just felt unnatural to keep the glove up against my face. But every time I dropped it, my partner would tap me on my left temple to point out my error. It drove me crazy and I spent hours at home, in front of the mirror, trying to correct the fault, trying to make the muscles remember.
When he had time, Ricky would try to teach me drills to help.
‘It’s all about footwork,’ he said more than once. ‘Once you can get into the right position with your feet, everything else will follow.’
‘Even my guard?’
‘Even your guard,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d come on Wednesday nights. I’d have more time to help you. There are less people here on Wednesday.’
‘Fewer people,’ I said automatically.
‘Is that right? Well I suggest you give me fewer back chat and more press-ups. On the floor.’ I sighed and dropped to my hands and knees. When was I going to learn to keep my mouth shut? But it felt good being able to banter. I felt comfortable there now. One of the team. Everyone had got used to me. Jordan, who wasn’t the brightest, seemed to think I was a cross between Stephen Fry and Mariella Frostrup and would ask me advice on an enormous range of topics, from removing unwanted apps from his phone to what he should say to a girl on a first date. The thing I liked the best was that Joe’s nickname for me seemed to have stuck. Everyone was now calling me Killa. I think it was ironic. But I liked it anyway.
I did some pad work with Coach Alex too, who didn’t say much, communicating mostly through his eyebrows. He’d twitch his right one when it was time for you to hit the pads and twitch his left when it was time to stop. If you got in a good hit he’d raise both of them. I found Tarik was very helpful, always nearby with a soft word of encouragement or a piece of advice. He told me I had to eat more and one Saturday he presented me with a big tub of whey protein.
‘You Syrian men know how to treat a girl,’ I said.
‘Drink it in milkshakes,’ he said. ‘Good for building muscle.’ I took it home, made myself my first protein shake and stared at it for a while, thinking. Wondering how serious I was. Then I took a sip.
‘Oh my God that’s disgusting,’ I said, and went to find some honey.
Girls’ Day Out
June went on. Exam time. Not the big, important exams. Just A1s. But any sort of exam made me wake in a cold sweat. I needed to focus. I stopped the bike rides with Dad, and I stopped Date Night too, much as I missed the shaved Armenian artichokes with lingonberry mousse. But I kept up the Saturday boxing sessions – I needed the release, and I didn’t want to risk losing what little muscle tone I’d managed to develop. Actually I think my fitness helped me with the exams. I was usually exhausted during exam time, tired the whole month and yet unable to sleep for more than a few hours. But this time round I felt much more alert.
On the first Saturday of July, after boxing, Mum took me to Brighton to buy a dress for the mess ball. ‘We’ll make a day of it,’ she said. ‘Just us girls. Frock-shopping.’
‘I don’t think they sell frocks in Brighton.’ I said. ‘Dresses perhaps?’ But it turned out I was wrong. They did have frocks in Brighton and Mum knew just where to find them. When most people go to Brighton to buy clothes they’ll either go to the Lanes to find something unusual or exclusive, maybe vintage. Or else they’ll go to one of the big department stores. But Mum had other ideas. She took me to a street where there was a row of horrible shop
s selling horrible dresses. Frocks, in fact. And they weren’t cheap either.
‘HOW much?’ I spluttered, examining the price tag on a turquoise nightmare she’d thrust at me. ‘Is there a worldwide shortage of chiffon?’
‘It’s a special occasion,’ Mum said, handing me a mound of candyfloss that turned out to be a gown. ‘You need a very special dress.’
I looked at the price tag. ‘Just give me this much money. I’ll buy something spectacular and have enough left over for an Italian cycle helmet.’
The sales assistant came back and Mum made me spin around so they could both inspect me. They pursed their lips. I pursed mine right back. The dress was hideous and I didn’t really care any more. I knew it was important that I made an effort for the ball, for George, for Mum. But I felt like a fraud: playing dress-up just wasn’t me.
We were in there for two hours, but we didn’t buy anything. Mum took me to lunch on the seafront afterwards even though I’d offended her by not wanting to dress up like a crinoline puffball. I tried to wind her up by ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.
‘You are not having the lobster,’ she said flatly.
‘We could share?’
She sighed.
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t find anything, Mum,’ I said. ‘I do appreciate you bringing me. I’m just not the sort of girl who wears dresses like that.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m trying to do you a favour, Fleur,’ she said. ‘You know all the other girls at the ball will be dressed beautifully and expensively. It’s all very well being different, but there’s a time and a place for that. Sometimes you need to go along with what everyone else does. That’s what it is to be an adult.’
‘I thought being an adult was all about making your own choices,’ I said.
‘If that were the case,’ she said, ‘you’d be having the lobster.’
134–Nil 1!
Something incredible happened today. I scored a goal. Not metaphorically. An actual goal, in hockey. Before the game started, as usual, Hannah came up to me and asked me to stay back and defend. ‘If the ball comes to you,’ she said, ‘don’t try to dribble it past the players on the other team, just hit it as hard as you can up to the far end and we’ll take it from there.’ I knew that when she said ‘we’, she meant ‘girls who can actually play hockey’.