A Royal Mess

by Tyne O'Connell

  Actually, I had thrown myself into the task of writing my essay. It started off quite well too, with all that pathos about being an American and coming from Hollywood and being packed off to boarding school, where I was tortured by Honey – all the obviously tragic things like that. I changed Honey’s name to Sweetie, but otherwise it was all true, just as the competition rules dictated.

  But then, when I started on the part about my parents and their breakup, I began to feel that I might be showing Bob and Sarah in a rather poor light. Bob was coming across in the essay as this self-obsessed brute who put his stupid old opus over and above his family, when clearly as a father and husband he should be loving and earning money to support us. But what could I do with only 3,000 words with which to depict my agony?

  Sarah wasn’t coming over too well in the essay, either. What with her regression issues, she was coming across as a bit of a spoilt child. I blamed the 3,000-word limit, which didn’t allow me to explain how genuinely kind and generous she was. I began to ramble on about how in sickness and in health she always put me first, but that had made the essay too long, so I had to cut it out.

  Eventually I showed what I’d written to Ms Topler.

  Ms Topler and I have had our issues over the years. She thinks literature is Charlotte Bronté and other odd bores, whereas I think literature is Nancy Mitford. Come to think of it Nancy’s best-selling book was a thinly veiled essay on her family. Then again, some of her relatives never spoke to her again after it was published.

  The next day, Ms Topler collared me in the corridor on my way to chapel. She was rapturous in her praise. This is magnificent writing, Calypso. So real. So straight from the heart. So eloquent! Meaningful and simply dripping with pain.’

  ‘So you don’t think it might upset my parents … you know, all that talk of Bob’s Big One and Sarah’s self-interest?’

  She laughed. ‘Dear Miss Kelly, you are such a button. No, I don’t think it reads as anything other than truly truthful and beautiful.’

  ‘I mean, they are really kind people in their own mad way. But all parents are mad, aren’t they?’

  Ms Topler looked at me pityingly. ‘Naturally you must cling to that delusion if it helps,’ she replied, patting me on the head, but I heard her mutter, ‘Poor dear Calypso.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked hotly.

  ‘Nothing, dear, and you’re right. I’m sure they do love you. In their own selfish way,’ she added sotto voce.

  ‘And Sarah is a darling, really.’

  ‘As I said Calypso, it is a real tribute to you that you always seek out the good in others. That is the nature of the creative soul.’

  Portia had distinguished herself at the tournament in Brighton on Saturday, which meant Bell End softened his position towards me a little bit. When I say softened, he was still coming at me with two sabres and yelling things to me along the lines of, ‘It’s your love life or your life, Kelly! Your choice, my privilege! Hah, hah, hah!’ My torso and arms now had a sort of blue mottled appearance – a look more fetching on a marble statue than a real, live girl, I suspect. I gathered from Portia that the scouts were still hot on the scent of Bell End’s talent (me), and he was gearing up for the regionals in a big way.

  After our practise session on Monday, Portia and I agreed that our training had taken on a sinister military aspect we weren’t entirely comfortable with. And I don’t just mean physically. I suppose this wasn’t helped by Bell End referring to us as Sergeant Briggs and Private Kelly.

  ‘Why can’t I be a sergeant?’ I asked, because, well, Private Kelly sounded a bit pervy to me.

  ‘You’ll get your stripes when you’ve earned them, Private. When you’ve shown your general that it’s sabreur first, second and third for you. No boys, no life, git it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I “git” it, Sir,’ I replied petulantly.

  ‘That’s General to you, Private.’

  ‘I suppose I always knew he was insane, but this is too much,’ I said to Portia as we changed after practice.

  ‘I love him. I think he’s really determined to help us through the regionals, you know. Seriously, it’s as if it’s personal for him. How’s your mother, by the way?’ she asked, peeling off her breeches.

  ‘Better,’ I replied. ‘I mean, she’s found a job which she’s really excited about. Only it’s not writing. She’s on the Ricky and Trudie show doing the “What’s Happening in Hollywood” slot.’

  Portia grimaced. ‘Be careful, darling. If Honey gets wind that your mother’s on a daytime television program, she’ll torture you mercilessly. You know what a venomous snob she is about television. As far as she’s concerned, it’s right up there with High Street labels.’

  ‘Or even as bad as people who don’t have their own personal stylists?’ I joked.

  ‘Darling, I’m serious. She’ll go for the jugular.’

  After we showered, I headed off to the pet shed to give little Dorothy a run. Georgina was already there. ‘Calypso, I heard about your mother. I’m really sorry.’

  I looked at her dumbfounded. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, terrified she’d finally been carted off in a pram.

  ‘Honey told me she’s on some chavie television program. I stood up for you, of course. As if Sarah would do something as lame as that,’ she told me. ‘But she’s telling everyone, darling. Here, hold Dorothy. She’s been telling me about how much she misses you, haven’t you bunnikins?’

  I took my darling rabbit and stroked her softer-than-soft ears. She wriggled her nose and gave me a little nip. ‘I think she wants a run,’ I suggested. ‘Have you fed her?’

  ‘Yes, but only a bit. I hoped you’d come so you could feed her the other half. But, darling, what are we going to do about Honey and these hideous rumours?’

  ‘The thing is,’ I began as Dorothy hopped happily about the pet run. ‘It’s true. Sarah is doing the “What’s Happening in Hollywood” slot on Ricky and Trudie.’

  Georgina laughed. ‘Brilliant. I love that slot. I bet Honey’s seethingly jealous that she’s not on a show with “What’s Happening” in the title. Let’s all make a point of asking Miss Bibsmore to record it for us so we can watch it after prep. That way we can get one over on Honey and say how marvellous we think Sarah is. I bet Portia will be up for it.’

  ‘Well, Clemmie will cheer for anything,’ I agreed.

  ‘This is going to be soooo cool!’ Georgina laughed.

  Sure enough, as soon as we saw Honey at supper she began going on about my plebbie mother and her chavie job. ‘It’s poor tragic Calypso we must rally around,’ she opined to all the girls at our table, as if she really, really cared about me.

  Everyone, apart from Clems, pretended to be as shocked as Honey was. Clemmie had to be led away by Arabella though, because she’d snorted her soup out her nostrils with uncontrollable laughter.

  Miss Bibsmore had been only too delighted to oblige us with recording Sarah’s slot. After prep, when she invited us to the television room to see Sarah’s debut, Honey was caught on the back foot.

  Sarah was wearing a bright red suit with enormous shoulder pads, which must have excavated from the eighties. She’d also done something worryingly weird with her hair.

  ‘Oh, poor Calypso,’ Honey bleated. ‘She looks like a tragic attempt at Jackie Collins.’

  ‘I think she looks utterly Hollywood, darling,’ Georgina insisted loyally.

  ‘Quite,’ Honey agreed as if she and Georgina were of the same mind.

  Actually, it turned out Sarah wasn’t as embarrassing as I feared she’d be. In fact, she seemed to have her Hollywood banter down pat as she spoke easily about Brad this and Tom that and Madonna the other. ‘Of course Jude is lovely in person, but well, so many Hollywood men seem to think marriage and children are just another role they’re playing,’ she said at one point. I couldn’t help thinking that this remark was meant more for Bob than poor Jude.

  ‘Never mind, darling,’ Honey soothed, w
hen Sarah’s slot ended. ‘Your mother has to do what she has to do to make ends meet. We all know of your sad upbringing, and we forgive you. I’m sure no one of our world need ever know how low Sarah has stooped this time.’ Then she gave me a cuddle.

  I just kept chanting away to myself: Freds loves me, Freds loves me, Freds loves me. Then later on, I added a vicious and cutting diatribe about the cruelty of ‘Sweetie’ in my competition essay.

  This essay was proving to be truly cathartic.

  TWENTY

  Saint Augustine’s Fencing Army Engages the Enemy

  Two marvellous things happened on Saturday. Firstly, my mobile phone privileges were reinstated. Secondly, Sarah (dressed as an American cheerleader, pom-poms and all), Sister Regina (who had made a sweet little knitted flag with ‘Go Calypso and Port’ embroidered across it – I guess she ran out of room for the ‘I’ and the ‘A’), Bell End, Portia (Sergeant Briggs) and myself (Private Kelly) set off to Eades in the school mini-bus for the regionals. In other words, I was about to see Freds.

  Freds, who loved me.

  ‘So what’s the deal with Freds, darling? Are we to run away or attack him this time?’ asked Sarah conspiratorially.

  Bell End blasted us before I could answer. ‘Attack, of course. Always attack, attack, attack! None of my troops will be running away. Never heard such rot.’

  ‘Actually, I really want you to meet him properly this time,’ I told Sarah, who clapped her hands with glee. I hoped I was making the right decision.

  ‘Right, Private,’ said Bell End, ‘You and the sergeant collect your kit. I’ll head in and start the reconnaissance. In the event of any questions, Private, refer to your superior officer, in this case Sergeant Briggs.’

  I rolled my eyes. Not just because of the madness he was spouting but because he was wearing a red beret and had some kind of riding crop made of plastic tucked under his arm like a real general’s cane.

  ‘I’m still the captain of this team,’ I reminded him.

  ‘This is a new game plan, Private. All carefully crafted while you were running around drunk as a skunk in robes with Eades boys. I won’t brook any argument when it comes to strategy, understood?’ He was glaring at me so hard I backed down. ‘Sister and Sarah, you come in with me to act as cover,’ he barked. ‘And none of that banner business this time. We’ll be presenting a professional dignified front in this battle.’

  ‘Ooooh yes, Mr Wellend,’ clucked Sister Regina, hiding her knitted flag behind her back. She was obviously madly impressed by General Bell End’s new persona. Nuns are soooo guileless.

  Registration passed without incident, and as soon as Portia – sorry, Sergeant Briggs – and I were kitted out we looked about for our boyfriends. There were probably about a hundred fencers in the hall. Between them, the presidents armed with clipboards, the gaggles of fan clubs and not to forget, Bell End’s scouts and spies lurking ominously in the shadows (well, according to Bell End anyway) we couldn’t see Freds or Billy before the pools were called.

  Portia and I began our stretches while the names were read out. Bell End, Sarah and Sister stood by as unobtrusively as a short man in a red beret, a nun with knitted flag and a middle-aged woman in a teen cheerleader’s outfit can. Portia and I both got a really high seeding, so that by the time the direct eliminations began the wind was truly in our sails. Because this was Eades and not Sheffield, I felt I had more of a reputation at stake. Jam-smeared banners were fine in a county I was unlikely to return to, but this was my manor – well, the manor I pulled fit boys from.

  I won my first direct elimination bout, effortlessly dispatching seed number sixty-five at fifteen-one. And I only allowed her that one hit because I thought she was about to cry.

  Portia won hers too, and Sarah and Sister began jumping with glee.

  ‘Good show, Sergeant Briggs, Private Kelly. But don’t let your guard down. Constant vigilance, as you never know what your enemy has planned. They set traps, these scum,’ he warned, looking around at the friendly faces of the girls milling about the hall. ‘Oh yes, I’ve been eavesdropping on some of the conversations, and they’re a bloody nasty lot, these girls. As nasty a lot as you’ll ever see.’

  That was when a girl from Saint Leonard’s came skipping over to say hi to Portia. ‘Darling, I just got through by the skin of my teeth. How’s Tarkie, I haven’t heard from him for a –’

  Bell End dived over, wedging himself between the two girls. ‘Sergeant Briggs, go and join Majors Sarah and Regina. I won’t have my troops subverted by the likes of you,’ he growled at Portia’s friend.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ I told the poor girl as I led her away. ‘He goes a bit mad during these competitions.’

  ‘Bloody nutter. You should report him. And what’s with that beret and the plastic magician’s stick?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, the beret is a new touch. It, erm, goes with the pom-poms on the cheerleader, though,’ I told her, pointing out my mad madre’s attire.

  My next bout was with a much hardier opponent. I’d fenced her before in Sheffield and she knew my form as well as I knew hers. She was slighter and shorter than I and devilishly swift to boot. I had to stretch myself to the limit for every one of the hits I made. Eventually I clenched the victory at fifteen-thirteen, but I was bruised and tired at the end.

  I went over to the refreshment table for a juice. Freddie was already there, looking pretty glum until he saw me with my sweaty hair plastered to my head.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked, trying not to be shallow and obsess on my sweaty, dishevelled appearance. I suspected it wasn’t going well for Freds despite the fact that he looked as fit as ever and his hair was still doing that lovely sticky-up thing that always made my tummy flip.

  ‘I’m already out, rinsed by a snotty little Harrovian.’

  ‘At least it wasn’t a Wimbledonian,’ I offered, which made him laugh.

  ‘I’ve got a break before the semi-finals,’ I told him.

  ‘Well, then, my champion, would you like to take a short perambulation around the back of the scoreboards. I hear that’s where they fix the scores.’

  ‘And hide from the scouts and spies,’ I joked. I’d told Freddie all about my mad fencing master’s paranoid delusions.

  ‘Well, then, it’s a duty more than a pleasure, really, when we think of it like that. Can’t let these horrid spies go unchecked.’

  So we snuck around the back of the hall, avoiding Bell End and company until we reached the large blackboard. It was only used for recording the scores of school matches, as it wasn’t that big, but it provided the perfect hiding spot for a pulling session.

  ‘I forgot how lovely you smell,’ Freds told me as he drew me into his stinky neck – only it smelt lovely to me. I seriously doubted my smell was lovely, though. But the fact that he said it made me swoon with love for him even more, so I blurted, ‘I love you!’

  Freds pulled away from me, and for a horrifying moment I thought he was going to do a runner, he looked so baffled.

  But he didn’t run off, he just smiled and then wrapped his arms around me so hard that he lifted me off the ground. ‘So does that mean I get a formal introduction to your mother?’

  ‘How do you know she’s here?’

  ‘Something about the pom-pom-laden cheerleader dress.’ He shrugged. ‘She has that Kelly look about her.’

  I don’t know why this pleased me so much. I guess it was relief or something that I didn’t have to hide such an important part of my life (Freds) from one of the most important people in my life. So I kissed him some more.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Pulling Princes

  As our lips roamed over one another, I was vaguely aware of announcements being made, but I remained otherwise oblivious to everything apart from Freds. That is, right up until the point at which his lips were cruelly wrenched from mine by Bell End, who thwacked HRH with his stupid faux riding crop.

  I mean, seriously, that had to be illegal for a sta
rt! Striking a royal presence?

  I didn’t need to seek confirmation on this. Freddie’s security dived on my general and began beating him to a pulp. It was soooo unfair because Bell End didn’t stand a chance. He was so small you couldn’t even see him under Freddie’s men. Not that a pileup of chino-wearing thugs with earpieces were going to shut our doughty general up.

  He kept yelling, ‘Subversion! Foul Play! Bad Form! Alert the BFA!’ as he valiantly flailed about with his broken plastic riding crop. Eventually the stun guns and batons defeated him, though, and nothing more than the odd squeak could be heard.

  ‘Freds! You’ve got to call them off,’ I begged, clutching Freddie’s arm. ‘That’s my general!’