A Royal Mess

by Tyne O'Connell

  Freds looked at me like I was insane. ‘Your what?’

  ‘My fencing master. Bell End.’

  ‘Oh, right. Shit! Okay, chaps, that’s enough,’ he yelled, kicking the brutes on top.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Calypso,’ he said kissing my forehead as he kicked his thugs, ‘but they have authority to act in what they consider my best interest in matters of security. It would seem they’ve assessed your general as a class-A threat. All we can do really is wait it out, and obviously I’ll cover any, erm, medical requirements.’ He gave his men a few more kicks with his foot, though.

  The real salvation came in the form of Majors Sister and Sarah, who launched themselves on Fred’s thugs with a professional level of violence that was really quite shocking. Within thirty seconds, Sister Regina had one of the guys in a headlock while Sarah began stuffing her pompoms in his mouth.

  By the time Sister and Sarah had called it a day, most of Fred’s security guys had pom-poms up their noses and another was entwined in Sister’s knitted flag. Another was nursing a bitten ear, although I think that might have been the work of Bell End.

  The whole hall was gathered around our group by this stage.

  Some idiot with a clipboard made a daft remark about Bell End and his friends bringing the sport into disrepute with their brawling, which only set Bell End (his beret now askew) off again.

  ‘Freddie, this is my mother, Sarah,’ I said (with a fair amount of pride, I might add) as I pushed her forward in her little mini-skirt.

  Freddie took her hand, and Sarah simpered away as he kissed it. ‘What a long awaited pleasure, Mrs Kelly.’

  ‘Oh, call me Sarah, Your Royal Highness,’ giggled my mad madre, giving Freds her best approximation of a curtsey while all around us fencers and their fans were dashing from piste to piste for matches and names that were being announced over the loudspeaker.

  ‘Don’t be so daft, Sarah,’ Sister Regina told her gruffly, pulling her away. ‘He’s just like anybody else. He’s not a saint, woman. Where’s your Catholic pride?’ Sister demanded. None of the nuns are particularly keen on boys or royalty, so Freds was not a hit with my little nun.

  As I watched the two of them hitting it off, I couldn’t for the life of me believe I was ever terrified of Sarah and Freds meeting. I guess knowing he loved me had made me more secure. They were flirting so ferociously I almost got jealous before I remembered that it was me he was pulling, not Sarah. I didn’t get to witness their meeting for long, though, as my name was called and I had to weave my way through the crowds to the other end of the hall.

  My opponent, her fan club lined up behind her, was already doing a few low lunges on the piste when I pitched up. As we sized up for the first play, I was still distracted by recent events. Then Freddie and Sarah turned up, and Freddie cupped his hands and called out, quite loudly so everyone could hear, ‘Give me a C! Give me an A! Give me an L! Give me a Y! Give me a P! Give me an S! Give me an O! Goooooo Calypso!’ And a few of my opponent’s fans wolf-whistled at Sarah, who was doing her cheerleader stuff beside him.

  At that point things became clear. I might not have a fan club the size of my opponent, but I had something better. I had a prince who loved me.

  I shook hands with my opponent, unable to hold back my happiness. I was grinning from ear to ear as I told her I hoped she’d do brilliantly. This love business had somehow taken the killer instinct out of me. My opponent wasn’t brimming with the same good will towards me, though. She squeezed my hand so hard it really hurt. ‘Good luck, bitch, you’re going to need it,’ she warned me sweetly. There was something about her sickly faux sweetness which reminded me of Honey.

  ‘Thanks for the warning, daaarling,’ I replied sarcastically, dragging out ‘darling’ with as much contempt as I could. I wasn’t going to be beaten by a toxic Honey-clone in front of Freds.

  Fifteen points later, she was resplendent in her humiliation. And I told her so. ‘Loosing becomes you, daaarling,’ I whispered as we shook hands – right after she had said ‘You were lucky, that’s all!’

  Lucky? Me? Hello, which one of us was writing an essay on the great tragedies of her life? Me, that’s who. Freddie swung me around and snog-aged. Then he held my sweaty face in his hands and said, ‘Did I tell you I love you even more when you win?’

  ‘Unhand that sergeant!’ Bell End yelled. Only neither of us took any notice. I was only a private, after all. It was only when he began slapping us with his beret did we realise our mistake. Making it to the finals had apparently earned me a promotion. I was now a sergeant too.

  We all repaired to the refreshment table, where Portia ran up to me and said, ‘Guess what! I’ve made it through to the finals, darling! Can you believe it?’

  ‘OMG! Me too!’

  ‘Aaaah!’ squealed Portia with an uncharacteristic loss of her aristocratic demeanour as we kept hugging one another and jumping up and down on the spot.

  ‘This is huge!’ I said. We’re against each other!’

  ‘I know, let’s go to the loo,’ she suggested.

  We didn’t stop to share our news but dashed and darted through the crowds and into the loos, where we splashed ourselves with water and gave one another blow-by-blow accounts of our triumphs. It was as if we were just about to play a practice bout or something. There wasn’t a bit of competitive tension between us. Maybe because we’d got all that out of our system before half term?

  ‘You do realise that this poses a rather nasty conundrum for our fans, though, Calypso.’

  I put my hand over my mouth in horror. ‘How’s Bell End going to abuse us? He just made me a sergeant, you know.’

  Back at the refreshment table, Sister and Sarah were stuffing themselves with Battenberg cakes and tea, chatting to Freds ten to the dozen, crumbs flying everywhere.

  ‘I watch your mother’s television slot,’ Freds told me.

  ‘He thinks I’m really fit, which mean “hot,”’ she explained, a blush spreading across her face. ‘Apparently all the boys at Eades do – think I’m fit,’ Sarah boasted, giggling like the teenager she so seriously wasn’t.

  ‘Well, you are a damn fine-looking woman, Major. Don’t need a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears schoolboys telling yer that, do you?’ Bell End remarked. He was wearing his beret again and had his silver Olympic medal out, but his little plastic stick was now in two parts, broken by the royal thugs. Even so, he looked very impressive.

  ‘You’re a handsome little chap yourself, Mr Wellend,’ Sister Regina told him sweetly.

  ‘We’ve been working on our battle chants,’ Sarah whispered conspiratorialy to me. We don’t want to favour either of you. I hope you don’t mind, darling, but the general says that even though I’m your mother, I’m not to show favouritism.’

  ‘No, of course,’ I agreed happily.

  ‘You do understand,’ she added. ‘Portia needs our support too.

  ‘Fine,’ I breezed, blissfully ignorant of what awaited us.

  ‘Your fabulous legs run in the family, then,’ Freds remarked sexily in my ear.

  ‘Don’t be so pervy. How dare you look at my mother’s legs!’ I teased.

  ‘Well, there’s not a lot else to look at, is there? I mean, to look at her, she’s all legs.’

  I looked over at my mother. He had a point.

  When our names were called to the piste, Portia and I made our way there arm in arm. A phalanx of the fittest boys England has to offer had assembled in great numbers all around the piste, presumably with the intention of watching the final. I recognised Billy, Kev, Malcolm and a few others, but the mass was just soooo daunting.

  Portia and I knew each other’s form so well we could impersonate one another. As we pulled our masks down before the president had even called play, I knew that thought must be on Portia’s mind too. We had the same master, we were one another’s practise partners. We could match each other skill for skill. Portia’s technique was flawless, and I knew that I would have to raise my thinking l
evel beyond textbook tactics if that buzzer was to blare for me fifteen times.

  There were no cheers or cries of abuse as we advanced. I emptied my mind and entered a state of pure focus in which all that existed was my blade and her blade. Portia knew only too well my preference for attack. I loved the aggression of sabre, whereas Portia had spent three years as an épéeist and loved a genius riposte. Her defence was flawless, and I knew she was relying on me to attack. So fighting aggressively against my friend in this bout would be playing to her strengths.

  I had to draw her out with a bluff.

  I straightened my arm to threaten her target area, but I didn’t advance, goading her to attempt to clear my blade. As Portia stepped forward to beat my blade, I surprised her with a disengagement and landed a viper-quick strike to her wrist. The buzzer was the only applause required.

  It was a tiring, strategic battle, fought almost as much in our minds as on the piste. It really was as Professor Sullivan, our old master, had always warned: a physical game of chess.

  By the time the president called ‘Fourteen, fourteen, bout point!’ we were both drained physically and mentally. Everything hinged on the next three seconds, and yet behind my mask I was smiling. I was proud not just of myself but because whatever happened in the next few moments we were both going to the Nationals.

  Portia’s poise betrayed none of her strategic intent. But I knew that aloof demeanour now. I knew what she was about to do – or so I thought. I planned to draw her out again – after all, I was the aggressive fencer – but Portia surprised me. No sooner had the President called play than Portia leapt forward, delivering a terrifying volley of attacks, and though I parried successfully there was no way I could have landed a riposte. She was like a lunatic Samurai. Bollocks to her aloof demeanour, this was war.

  With a flash of insight, I trapped her blade in an envelopment, giving me that micro-second to plan my next move. Portia disengaged, readying herself for her next assault, but she’d betrayed herself, and it was too late. My blade flicked across her stomach in a deft attack she could never have anticipated. The buzzer trumpeted my victory, and the crowd erupted into tumultuous applause.

  The president formalised my win. ‘Fifteen-fourteen, victory Kelly.’

  I tore off my mask, spraying my adoring crowd with a deluge of sweat as I saluted Portia with an old-world flourish, and then the president with the standard casual flick. Portia, her hair as disgusting as mine, ran forward, and dispensing with the formal handshake, swept me up in a toast cuddle. A cuddle that soon turned into a group hippie hug when Bell End, Sarah, Sister, Freddie and Billy joined us.

  It was all so mad after that. The long prophesised scout materialised in the form of a be-suited BFA representative inviting Portia and me to try out for the British national team. Even Malcolm whisked me into a whirl. ‘Miss Kelly, what a killer you turned out to be!’

  ‘Thanks, Malcolm, that’s really sweet.’

  ‘So, thing is, can you give this DVD to that scrumptious friend of yours, Indie?’

  ‘Yaah, sure,’ I said, slightly dazed.

  ‘Cool. See you round, then.’ He waved as he turned to leave, and I watched his distinctive head of red hair disappear into the crowd.

  It was all a whirl of congratulations, adulations and cup presentations after that. I had to stand on a stage for the ceremony as all the boys clapped for me. Freds was at the front with Portia and Billy, clapping and whistling madly. Bell End was sobbing uncontrollably with pride, although my mother and Sister Regina tried to console him. My only regret was how sweaty I was.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sarah’s Car of Shame

  After the match, I wondered if I would ever get over such a high. Freds loved me. I loved Freds. I was going on to the Nationals and best of all, so was Portia. It was a fairy tale come true. Even Portia chucked her aloof demeanour that night back in the dorm for a celebratory party in Georgina, Star and Indie’s room.

  It was Tobias’s idea. These things usually are.

  ‘But I thought he’d given up drinking?’ I remarked, referring to his recent bout in detox.

  ‘He’s fallen off the wagon, darlings,’ Georgina explained, covering Tobias’s ears. Her lower lip wobbled with the faux sorrow of it all. ‘I think the best cure might be for him to let off a bit of steam, don’t you?’

  We most certainly did. Piling our tuck and Body Shop Specials in the middle of the room, Indie offered to do the DJ-ing, which essentially meant sticking CDs in her laptop. Soon everyone, including Portia, was dancing on the beds wildly. Honey took her usual dancing spot by the mirror so she could see herself better. Or as Star whispered in my ear, ‘She’s checking that she still has a reflection.’

  Nothing could spoil our high that night. Even Miss Bibsmore was late doing her rounds. When she did pop her head in, all she did was tell us that while we deserved a ‘bit of a party,’ we should try and keep the noise down.

  I had to concede that Honey said nothing bitchy to me all evening. Well, nothing at first. Even when I tried on Indie’s cool mini-skirt and it was too tight around the hips. She even asked if she could cadge a ride from me to Windsor the next day. Sarah was picking me up to take me to lunch with Freds. That’s why I was trying on Indie’s clothes, to find something truly stupendous to wear.

  ‘I want something that says I’m stunning and wonderful and lovable,’ I explained to my friends.

  ‘And I have a wonderful house in Clapham, darling. You must come and stay, Your Royal Highness. We’ll get out our best serviettes and you can sit on the lounge and watch some chav telly,’ Honey added in a common accent.

  I knew I’d been naive to think she could resist taking the piss forever.

  ‘You do such a great chav accent, darling,’ Star marvelled. ‘Scarily good in fact. Are you sure you don’t have a little chav blood in your gene pool?’

  Honey looked like she wanted to mace Star, but instead all she did was laugh as if she thought Star were really funny. Then she turned to me and said, ‘So, you and the adorable Sarah are lunching with Freds tomorrow, are you?’

  We’re meeting up for a pizza, if that’s what you mean by “lunching,”’ I said.

  ‘Poor Sarah.’ Honey sighed, pausing presumably to think up what her next spiteful remark could be.

  ‘I love Sarah,’ Georgina interrupted as she danced around the room with Tobias, who was already pretty tipsy by the look of him. ‘She’s cool. Tobias adores her too,’ she added as she did a dance spin with Tobias and fell dizzily onto the floor. ‘He’s a marvellous dancer, but I think he’s had too much to drink,’ Georgina continued, which I think was her way of changing the subject. Georgina is about the only person Honey is scared of. Georgina said that’s because she knows where the bodies are buried. Star used to say that’s because Georgina helped her bury them. But that was before Star decided that Georgina was cool, after all.

  We finally went to bed around midnight, but Portia and I were still too high to go to sleep, so we went over and over our triumphs of that day, speculating on what the Nationals would be like and trying not to get too overexcited in case we didn’t do well.

  On Sunday we had a full fry-up for breakfast. Portia and I were eating loads more than we were used to, but all I seemed to do was get skinnier and taller.

  After Mass finished at one, Sarah arrived in the car of shame to pick up me, Portia and Honey. Portia was lovely and gracious, of course, but Honey was sooo Honey, I could have thumped her.

  Actually I could have thumped Sarah too, when I saw what she wearing.

  Okay, I love her. She’s the best, but a powder blue floral skirt and matching jacket with a powder blue handbag and pillbox hat?

  ‘Have you been to Oxfam, Sarah?’ I asked crossly.

  ‘What are you talking about, Calypso?’ Sarah replied, patting the monstrosity on top of her head. But as she looked around the faces of everyone milling around us, the gravity of her mad outfit began to sink in. ‘Honey called me la
st night and told me that it was royal protocol to, erm, dress like the queen when meeting royals.’

  Honey giggled.

  Portia said nothing.

  ‘Royal protocol?’

  We were standing beside the car of shame in the car park where taxis were pulling in to pick girls up for trips into Windsor. Honey wasn’t the only person laughing.

  Actually the only people not laughing were Portia, Sarah and myself. Even the taxi drivers gathered in the forecourt were having a good chuckle.

  Sarah was clearly flustered, and with everyone pointing and giggling she began to cry.

  I turned on Honey. ‘You are such a bitch,’ I told her. ‘How dare you torture my mother, you sick psycho toff.’

  Honey began filing her nails. ‘Don’t you hate cuticles, darling? I mean, what do they even do?’ she asked.