‘Yes, Ms Topler.’
‘Now take a seat while I get something that I hope might interest you.’
I sat down in a chair by the window and looked out over Pullers’ Wood at the golden carpet of fallen leaves. The bare branches looked so forlorn – a bit like I felt. Ms Topler handed me a pamphlet. The same pamphlet Star had given me about the essay competition.
‘I’ve given these entries out to the Year Tens and below, as the competition is limited to the Under Fifteens. You don’t turn fifteen until after the end of this term, do you, though, Miss Kelly?’
‘No,’ I replied.
Ms Topler sat on the seat beside me, which meant I could smell her perfume, Red Door by Elizabeth Arden. I tried not to choke on the strong fumes and pretended to pay attention. ‘I knew it. Don’t you see what this all means?’ she asked excitedly.
‘That I don’t get any proper birthday presents because my birthday is only days away from Christmas.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that people try to get you one big present,’ she said, patting my arm.
‘I think we both know that’s a big lie,’ I told her.
‘Yes, perhaps it is. My birthday is on the twenty-fourth of December.’
‘It sucks, doesn’t it?’ I blurted before I could help myself.
‘Yes, it does rather,’ agreed my teacher. ‘But what doesn’t suck is that your late birthday makes you eligible to enter the competition, and while I don’t want to get your hopes up too high, I certainly think you have the ability to win this – if you put your heart and soul into it.’
I turned the pamphlet around in my hands and realised that my gating might give me the opportunity to work on the essay. Thank you, Ms Topler, but do you really think my pathetic sufferings such as they are can compete with the other applicants?’
‘Miss Kelly, you can’t measure suffering. And besides, this is a writing competition. The judges will be judging you on how well you express your suffering, not on what your suffering has been.’ She was looking into my eyes like a hypnotist.
‘I guess,’ I agreed as I began to realise that it was all about the writing, not the suffering. I’d been looking at it all the wrong way. Okay, so my life had been a bed of roses compared to some, but there is a universality about suffering, and Bob is always saying that being a successful writer is all about the ability to communicate the personal in the universal.
‘Just consider this. Knowing all the other things you have on your plate, I wouldn’t suggest this essay competition if I didn’t think you had a real chance. You have a rare talent, Miss Kelly, and this could be your opportunity to show the country. At the very least to explore your potential.’
‘Thank you, Ms Topler,’ I said, smiling at her hopeful face.
‘So you’ll try it?’
‘I’ll give it my best shot.’
And then Ms Topler did something so unexpected it toppled me – quite literally to the ground. She slapped me really hard on the back and said, ‘That’s my girl!’ And then she laughed and laughed and said. ‘One big present indeed. You’re absolutely right, Miss Kelly. It sucks.’
So now it was official. I was entering an autobiographical writing competition which would depict my suffering in all its middle-class glumness.
SEVENTEEN
Bell End’s Sacred Sabre
I know my mobile had been confiscated, but there is e-mail, after all. Bob and Sarah were addicted to it. I wrote to Freddie trying to explain why I had tried to patch things up with him in a dressing gown in Malcolm’s room, but he didn’t reply.
Fine, he could sulk if he wanted to, but I was damned if I wasn’t going to tell Bob what I thought of him.
Dear Bob,
I hope you are very pleased with yourself! Sarah has now lost her job thanks to you. I can’t believe that a father of mine could be so cold and allow a woman to whom he once vowed to forsake above all others [including Big Ones] to end up on the scrap heap of life. You and your creative endeavours have been the downfall of this family. From this day forth I shall call you, well, I don’t know what yet, but when I think of it, you can be certain it will make you sorry you were ever born. Also, now that poor Sarah has lost her job, how can she pay my fees and support herself? And her self-esteem is in ruins. And she’s seeing a therapist called Bunny – well, phoning her, because this Bunny creature lives in LA. Anyway, it’s all a Big Mess and it’s all your fault. And I hate you. And I’ve just had a gating.
From your daughter Calypso.
PS: note the lack of xxx’s and oooo’s!!!
Talk about living at his laptop! His response came roaring back as defiant as a teenage girl’s! And if, like me, you were expecting an e-mail of remorse, a few lines of his heartfelt shame or an explanation for driving Sarah to England – or a grovelling plea for me to forgive him – you’ll be disappointed.
Dearest Daughter,
Sarah has spoken to me of your naked romp around the dormitory rooms of Eades! Please explain immediately. Your loving father, Bob
NB:
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
How dare he!
Dear ‘Daddy,’ [I wrote, righteous steam coming out of my ears]
Bugger off. I hate you and everything you stand for and shan’t write to you again. Consider yourself personae non gratia.
C.
PS: I soooo wasn’t naked!
Since she moved to England, Sarah had been sending me little letters written on art gallery postcards, which I have lovingly pinned to my pin board.
‘How could Bob let a woman like her slip through his fingers?’ Star asked as postcard after postcard arrived. The rest of the time she went on and on about the competition. ‘You are soooo winning that competition! I just know it.’
It was with some trepidation that I entered the salle, knowing I would have to tell Bell End that I wouldn’t be attending the tournament on Saturday.
He bounded over like a spaniel in white breeches to greet me. ‘Here she is!’ he cried, clapping his hands with glee. Clearly no one had told him about my gating.
Portia joined him halfheartedly because word had spread through school already about my punishment. There was even a rather clever haiku in the downstairs loos about my Eades escapades, followed by another about my punishment.
‘That’s right, big round of applause, Portia. Crank it up there.’
It was soooo embarrassing. Seriously–he was standing on a block with his loud inhaler while the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ played on a gramophone in the corner of the room.
‘Take a bow, Kelly! You little champ.’
‘Erm, Mr Wellend, I actually need to talk to you!’
‘Plenty of time for talk after class, Kelly. Now how about you climb up on my shoulders for a victory run around the school, eh? Let’s show them what we’re made of, eh Kelly, eh!’
So that was that. What was I to say? He’d already bent down, so I climbed up onto his shoulders and we ran through the school, into classrooms and bedrooms, creating havoc and madness, especially in the convent. Sister Regina, who was soooo obviously expecting us, had a big spread of Battenberg cakes and tea set out for Portia, Bell End and myself. The nuns were only allowed to eat the cucumber sandwiches, and a very sulky atmosphere prevailed.
‘We’re all very proud of you Calypso,’ they told me at one time or another, usually when I passed them a piece of illicit Battenberg cake.
When we arrived back in the salle, I couldn’t put my moment of truth off any longer, though.
‘Mr Wellend, I have to tell you something.’
He ruffled my hair affectionately.
‘You can tell me anything, Kelly, anything. As long as you distinguish yourself at the Brighton Open on Saturday that is, ha-ha-ha.’
‘Oh! Well, that’s it, you see. I’ve been g-g-g-g-g-gated.’
Bell End thwacked me on the back – and really hard too. What was that? A piece of cake going down the wrong way?
Oh yes, mark my words, Kelly, Brighton will be where we really stick it to them. The scouts all gathered. The scene all set. It’s going to be a bloodbath, my girl. And I, for one, can’t wait. So without further ado, I hereby present you with this blade of death that I distinguished myself with all those years ago at the Olympics.’
That was when he passed me a sabre, which I accepted. Well, better in my hands than his, was my reasoning. At least I’d be armed if he went crazy upon hearing the news that I really wasn’t going to Brighton on Saturday. I studied the weapon, which was slightly rusty, and noted with some amusement that it had the words ‘KILL, SLAY, MAIM’ scratched childishly into the guard.
‘That’s really kind, Mr Wellend. I’ll treasure it.’
‘Steady up there, Kelly. You can’t keep it, you idiot. I won silver with that.’ He snatched it back crossly. I was just showing you, yer brainless girl. What kind of fool would give a weapon like this away to an untried schoolgirl. I barely know you, child.’
‘Oh, sorry, my mistake, Mr Wellend, but it does bring me to the thing I had to tell you actually, about my, erm, gating on Saturday, see.’
Bell End’s face started to go a nasty shade of purple. ‘Gated? What do you mean gated? Sister can’t gate you on Saturday. We’ve got the tournament!’
I was really regretting giving him his sabre back so quickly. ‘Yes, that’s what I said when Sister Constance gated me, funnily enough.’ I laughed as best I could. ‘And she took my mobile privileges off me, which I think is madly unfair and draconian. Okay, so I ran half-naked around Eades and drank a bit of champagne, but honestly –’
‘What would you want to be drinking champagne and running around naked for when you’ve got the Nationals coming up?’ Bell End demanded hotly. ‘You should be practising your footwork, Kelly.’
‘I wasn’t properly naked, Mr Wellend. I mean, I was wearing a robe.’
‘I’m not interested in your nudity, but what’s robes got to do with it? You’re not Harry bloody Potter, girl. Robes? What were you wearing robes for? What’s a sabreur want with robes?’ Bell End demanded hotly.
Portia, who had been standing nearby waiting for the fireworks, gave him a pat on the back. ‘She’ll still be at the regionals sir, and Til be coming on Saturday.’
‘You’re a good little fencer, Briggs,’ Bell End turned to her seemingly composed momentarily. ‘But the scouts! The BNFA spies? What am I to tell them? I’ve set my trap, Briggs! Planned every intricate move to lure them into my web. Kelly! What have you done to me?’ he cried out like a man in true pain.
‘Well, see, sir, the thing is, I was I looking for my boyfriend to say sorry because –’
‘I don’t care if you were looking for the Holy Grail, you stupid girl. They don’t put you on the National Team because you’ve chased down a spineless boyfriend in a robe. What kind of nancy boy has you playing hide-and-seek with him, anyway?’
‘Erm, Prince Freddie, sir.’
Bell End shook his head. ‘I blame those romantic novels they feed you. Prince bloody Freddie, indeed! I bet it was that Eades fencing master set the whole thing up. Entrapment, that’s what it is. I’ll be complaining to the BNFA, I will. Entrapment.’
‘But can’t Calypso meet the scouts and, erm, spies at the regionals?’ Portia suggested gently.
Bell End bent his sword into the piste in fury. ‘No, she bloody can’t! These men don’t have memories. Here today, gone tomorrow. No!’ With that he threw his prized sabre down the piste.
‘Get out of my sight, Kelly. You’ve let me down. You’ve let everyone down. My plan to make you an Olympian, blown away like a house of straw. Spineless, big girl’s blouse, that’s all you are. Robes! Git out of my sight. Out, I say!’
I began to run out of the salle, tears streaming down my face.
Then Bell End shouted, Where do you think you’re going, Kelly?’
I turned. ‘Out of your sight, Bell End, I mean Mr Wellend,’ I whimpered.
He slapped his forehead like a truly frustrated man. ‘I don’t believe this, lily-livered girls. Git back in here.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘Drop and give me twenty, now.’
I looked at Portia. Portia shrugged.
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid, Kelly? Drop, both of you. Yes, you too, Briggs. I daresay they’d have you in a robe as well if you’d won the tournament. Give me twenty.’
So drop we did and gave him twenty press-ups.
That was how my week of fencing continued. Bell End ranting about his scout ruse being ruined followed by punishing exercises and rants about ‘bloody robes.’ I don’t think Portia was too impressed with me for bringing the wrath of Bell End down on us, either.
EIGHTEEN
The Return of Octavia
Bell End’s mood towards me didn’t improve over the rest of the week. His sacred sabre didn’t appear again, which I took as significant. Nor did the rain let up. Freddie continued to reject all my calls, which I now had to make from a call box that was a half-mile trek in the rain from the dorm. He also ignored all my e-mails. On the up side I really did try and pull my tights up when it came to my studies and handed in an outstanding Greek translation, which I was pretty sure would garner me an A, or a B, at least. Definitely a C anyway.
Sarah e-mailed me every day, but her attempt at sounding upbeat and her overuse of the word ‘super’ didn’t fool me. She was going on loads of interviews and her agent was ‘confident.’ I wished I were as confident as this agent.
Portia had already left for the tournament by the time I woke up on Saturday. It was pissing down with rain still, and breakfast was only stale cereal and powdered milk due to some transport strike. Star and Indie decided to hang with me rather than go into Windsor with everyone else, which was really sweet of them, especially because I knew how much Star wanted to see Kev.
The truth was, as kind as it was of Star to stay with me, I would have rather been on my own and worked on my essay. Having overcome my earlier reservations, I was now keen to get cracking on the essay competition.
After breakfast, I lay in my bed and thought about what I would write. Three thousand words of personal life-changing trauma seemed a lot for an almost-fifteen-year old. It’s funny, but the more I thought about my life, the more sorrow I saw.
Being an American in an English girls’ boarding school.
The misery that Bob’s need to pursue his own creative endeavours had wrought on our family.
My concern for Sarah’s loneliness and the sense of failure she felt.
How I felt about her leaving Bob to have her regressionary breakdown in London.
And then there was Freds, who wouldn’t talk to me.
Oh, and let’s not forget the toxic Honey, using me as her torture toy at every opportunity these past four years.
Slowly I began to see that there really was some class-A trauma going on in my life. In fact, would three thousand words be enough?
Honey, Clemmie and Arabella headed off to Windsor after lessons at one o’clock but Star and Indie charged into my room just as I was making some really serious breakthroughs. I told them I was busy, but Star gave me a speech about solidarity and standing shoulder to shoulder with the suffering of the sisterhood or something Star-ish like that. So I put my essay aside and gave in.
‘I just know you’ll win this writing competition, Calypso,’ Indie said, displaying a confidence in me she really had no reason to have, given she’d only known me half a term.
‘I told her what a genius you are with words,’ Star explained.
‘And I seriously love The Nun,’ Indie added, referring to the magazine I’d set up in Year Ten. ‘I’d love to hear what you’ve written so far,’ she pleaded.
So I read them out what I’d written, giving a little cough to set the mood. Talk about random. This was the worst-case scenario in my long history of worst-case scenarios. But then, my entire life is a random series of worst-case scenarios. At fourteen you start to realise these things.’ I looked a
round my audience and smiled hopefully.
‘Go on,’ Star urged, her eyes bright with anticipation.
‘Erm, that’s as far as I’ve got, actually,’ I explained.
‘Oh,’ she said, très unimpressed. Then she rolled her eyes at me so I rolled mine back at her, then Indie rolled hers at both of us. I suspect we could have gone on like this until we had a fit or dislocated an eye, but we were interrupted by a tapping sound at the window.
‘It’s Kev!’ cried Star, rushing over to open the window for her very wet boyfriend.
A Royal Mess Page 13