Malcolm elaborated with fanciful tales of ambassadors and caviar, which made Indie giggle. But I could tell by the looks passing between the security guys that they wanted to throttle Malcolm and Honey and quite possibly the rest of us.
As I sat there watching Honey going along with our ruse to keep the fight from Sarah, I was impressed. Could this be a new side of Honey?
‘So you caught up with lots of friends, then?’ Sarah enquired directly of Honey.
‘Oh yes, Sarah,’ Honey agreed gleefully. ‘And some of your neighbours,’ she added.
Everyone glared at her, imagining she was about to blow our cover.
‘Air kisses all round,’ Honey simpered. ‘In fact, Glasgow kisses for some, wasn’t it, Malcolm?’ she added just to make us squirm, I think.
‘Oh, Malcolm, what are you like?’ Sarah teased, completely oblivious to the undertones of the conversation and probably ignorant of what a Glasgow kiss even was.
‘Been to Glasgow, then, have you, Honey?’ Malcolm asked – obviously joking.
‘Darling? Moi go north of the M25?’ Then she did that horrible laugh she does where her collagen lips bubble up. And like everyone, I breathed a sigh of relief. Honey had definitely saved our butts on the street and she was even playing along to protect Sarah from the truth. Yet deep down she was still the Honey we knew and love/hated and, funnily enough, I took an odd sort of comfort in that.
I could tell Star was thinking the same thing because she winked, first at me and then at Georgina, Portia and even Tobias while Sarah explained the games she’d set up all over the floor: Twister, Cluedo, Hungry Hungry Hippos – a whole variety of babyish games. Bless, I thought, determined not to be embarrassed.
‘I thought we might all play some games?’ she suggested excitedly.
‘Cool,’ agreed Malcolm. ‘I love Hungry Hungry Hippos.’
And it was cool. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard as when Freds’ and Indie’s security guys fell into a tangled Twister heap.
The only downside of the whole weekend was that I didn’t get to kiss Freds – well, not nearly enough.
TWENTY-FOUR
Bob’s Big Bombshell
After such a wonderful weekend with Sarah, I felt the need to write to Bob. Sarah had gone from a reverting infant to a brilliantly independent woman (with a bit of help from Bunny, whom I heard her speaking to on the phone). Despite all her reverting and madness, I was really proud of my mother for managing to set up a house, land a job in a country where she had no professional history, get fired and land another job which had transformed her into a minor celebrity. And all the way through she’d been there for me, taking me to lunch, supporting my fencing and impressing my friends and boyfriend.
And where was Bob during this transformation? Swanning around like an eighteenth-century dandy, draped over his wretched script, all thoughts of family responsibility forgotten. Even Freds hinted that he thought Bob was a loser.
And I couldn’t have that.
Either Bob was going to have to sort himself out, or I was going to give Sarah my full support. Which meant giving Bob the boot. I think writing my essay had helped to stimulate my sense of injustice. Every night at prep after I’d done my course work, I tackled the edits Ms Topler had suggested for my essay. I think it was when I was writing about Bob humiliating me at the navel-piercing shop in Beverly Hills that I realised I had to confront him properly. Face-to-face, even. The arrogance of the man knew no bounds, and he needed to be brought down a peg or two.
Dear Father,
Enough is enough. The only good thing you had going for you [Sarah] has set up a lovely home in a rapidly gentrifying area of London and is presenting a really cool show and is admired by teenage boys everywhere as the hottest woman on television. I plan to advise Sarah to divorce you because you suck and Sarah rocks. Put that in your script! Yours sincerely, Calypso
PS: Not that you’d care, but I won the regionals and this Saturday I intend to win the Nationals at the Crystal Palace Sports Centre, which happens to be where the British Olympic team trains and Sarah will be there supporting me. She has been cheering me on at every match since she moved over here while you’ve been self-absorbed and unfeeling.
I studied my expertly crafted email for some time, making a few minor adjustments. Bob had an eagle eye when it came to lapses in grammar. He could bang on for hours about the imperfect past participle as used in England. He should have married Ms Topler – she would have given him a run for his money. When I was sure it was just right, I pressed ‘Send,’ revelling in the note of defiance as the mouse clicked.
I was about to go back to my essay about the great tragedy that was my life when I got a response from Bob.
Congratulations darling,
[Darling indeed, if he thought he could sweeten me up with darlings he had a huh and a half coming his way!]
I am thrilled that both you and Sarah are flourishing in England. I am so thrilled in fact that I have just decided to come to the tournament on Saturday to see my little girl trounce the competition.
Your loving father,
XXX Bob
Oh bugger. How dare he abuse my stern, reprimanding e-mail, which was meant to make him tres remorseful and depressed, and use it as an excuse to inflict himself on poor Sarah and stress her out just as she was starting to enjoy herself again. Bob’s presence at the Nationals could be catastrophic. Stupid, stupid Calypso, for even mentioning the tournament, I scolded myself. If Bob did carry out his threat and come to the tournament and distress Sarah, it would be all my fault. I had to do something! I had to stop this.
But first I had to write a lot of really mean things about him in my essay. My fingers moved like a righteous gale over the keyboard as day after day I poured my feelings into the essay. When it was finished, I was quite proud. Any guilt I may once have harboured over my exposing my family as dysfunctional had dissolved. Just like my enthusiasm for the Nationals, I realised. After all, how could I face the Nationals with Bob there upsetting Sarah?
If Bob turned up, I was going to have to keep him away from Sarah at all costs. I decided to enlist the General to fight the good fight. Bell End was a man who didn’t flinch in battle and, more importantly, he loved a paranoid delusion like no one else.
That night, while Honey was visiting her horrid sister, Poppy, I shared my fear with Portia about Bob coming to the Nationals.
Portia was more circumspect than I about the Bob thing. ‘If he’s so broke, how can he afford to fly out here? And where would he stay? I doubt Sarah is going to take him back. She strikes me as being an extremely determined woman.’
‘But how can I risk it? I can’t focus on my fencing knowing my father and mother are involved in their own field of combat across the arena somewhere. And Sister Regina is too tiny to help.’
‘Darling, you’re being silly. Don’t you recall what Sister did to Fred’s security guards? One of them was still wearing a plaster on his nose last weekend.’
I giggled at the memory. This isn’t funny,’ I told her.
She giggled too. ‘It is, really.’
‘I’m thinking of telling Bell End tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she advised as Honey returned to our room.
I knew I was right to tell Bell End, though.
‘It’s the bloody BFA!’ he hissed. They’ve put him up to it, I’ll be damned. They’ve been trying to bring me down since I won this silver,’ he snarled, brandishing his medal at me.
‘No, actually I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to explain, sir. I mean General. Bob, that’s my father, and Major Sarah, well, we can’t let them meet at the Nationals! It will traumatise not just Sarah but, well, everyone actually.’ Me especially, I wanted to say.
‘Bloody fine little woman, your mother. No, you leave it to me, Kelly. This goes deeper than some petty marital dispute. I’ve seen this sort of thing before, girl. Subversion on an impressive scale. You’re
still a neophyte to the ways of the BFA.’
‘A what?’
‘A kindergartener.’
He was insane.
Portia was right. I shouldn’t have told him about Bob. He patted me on my head – no mean feat, as I towered a good six inches above him. You let me look after little Sarah. I’ll keep this bastard Bob at bay.’
Portia came into the salle then, so our conversation was cut short, but I don’t think prolonging it would have made me feel more confident.
‘Right, get changed and we’ll begin the drill. I can feel the spirit of Jerzy Pawlowski in the salle today, girlies.’
As we dashed towards the changing rooms, Portia joked, ‘How many ways of moving forward do you have?’
But I couldn’t even pretend to joke that day. The usual good humour a girl feels during the last week of Christmas term was noticeably absent for me. Not even the ebullient mood of Ms Topler as I handed in my completed essay on the last day of term had lightened my mood.
Apart from the overseas students, all the other girls had already left for the Christmas break – Portia and I had been given special permission to stay over Friday night due to the Nationals. The school felt eerily empty by Friday evening as Portia and I helped Bell End load the mini-bus, so we all jumped when Ms Topler came running out side.
‘Dear child, dear, dear Miss Kelly! I wept.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I told her, wondering what I’d done to upset her.
‘No no no, I wept tears of sorrow!’ She insisted, as if this were a good thing. ‘I wept tears of helplessness. I wept tears of horror.’
I knew she was referring to the essay now, but horror? Maybe I had over-egged the pudding of my tragic life a little too much.
‘Yes, and finally I wept tears of pride at the tribute to literature that you placed in my hands this morning,’ Ms Topler praised.
‘Stand away from the bus!’ Bell End yelled as he manoeuvred our fencing kits in. Then he muttered something about saboteurs being everywhere. ‘Only authorised fencers, Ms Topler.’
‘Oh, I see. Well I’ll bid you good night, then,’ she replied awkwardly. ‘But thank you, Calypso. I just wanted to praise your work and to assure you that I know brilliance when I read it, and what’s more, I know you’re going to win this competition.’
‘Of course she’s going to win. Haven’t bin training her up to lose, yer silly woman!’ Bell End yelled at my poor English literature teacher.
‘Thank you, Ms Topler,’ I called out as she ran towards the safety of the school.
TWENTY-FIVE
Bob at Bay
Sister Regina sat up front with Bell End on the short drive to Crystal Palace sport’s centre in London. Sarah was going to meet us there, as it wasn’t that far, coming from Clapham. I wished now that I hadn’t been so specific about where the Nationals were being held.
As we drove past the long rows of suburban houses under Heathrow’s busy flight path, I wondered if Bob had already flown in. Maybe he was already here, lurking in London somewhere?
‘So, have you got a photograph of this father of yours, Kelly?’ asked Bell End.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, passing a snap taken last summer, when all had been rosy and cosy at chez Kelly.
‘Are you certain you want to light the fuse on this?’ Portia asked me quietly as Bell End grabbed my photograph and stuck it on the rearview mirror.
‘See this man here, Sister?’ He jabbed at my father’s smiling face.
Sister perched her pince-nez on her nose and peered at the friendly face of Bob. He was wearing shorts and t-shirt at the beach, his arm around Sarah and me.
Sister Regina studied the photograph for some time before exclaiming. ‘Oh, that’s our lovely Sarah. Doesn’t she look tanned? And soooo slim too. What a wonderful figure she has for a woman her age, don’t you think, Mr Bell End?’ Poor Sister was starting to pick up on our nickname for our master.
‘I’m not interested in the blasted woman’s legs, Sister,’ he snapped gruffly. ‘It’s the man beside her.’ He jabbed at my father’s face again. ‘Kelly’s father. He intends to disrupt the finals, Sister. Sabotage us. Ruin everything. We’ve got to stop this man.’
Sister turned around. Her elderly face creased with years of fervent prayer and kindness.
‘Is this true, Calypso? Does your father wish us ill?’
‘Well, you know how my mother’s left him?’
Sister nodded. ‘A very sad business, although talking to Sarah I feel a great sense of love for your father inside her. And regardless of Sarah’s sadness over Bob’s Big One, why would your own father want you to do badly, dear?’
I blushed, worried now that I’d started Bell End off – and he was not a man to be held back. That’s not really the point, Sister. It’s just that I know it will upset Sarah seeing him at this stage, and oh, I don’t know. She’s had such a tough time settling back in England, Sister. And now she’s finally on her feet, I don’t want him bullying her.’
Sister peered more closely at the photograph. ‘But he looks like such a kind man, Calypso.’
‘Kind, my foot,’ said Bell End gruffly. ‘Man’s out to sabotage us, Sister. You have to leave sentiment out of the bloody thing. Do you want our girl to fail? Do you want Major Sarah upset?’
‘Oh! No, General. Dear Calypso, no. We can’t have that,’ Sister agreed. ‘I was just saying he looks like such a nice man. But of course if he intends to muck our Sarah about or interfere with Calypso’s sporting achievements, he’ll meet with fierce resistance from me, General.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s been despatched by one of the competitors in a dirty-tricks campaign,’ Bell End muttered.
‘Isn’t that a bit elaborate, Mr Wellend?’ Portia asked reasonably.
‘You don’t know what elaborate means, Briggs. They’ll stoop to anything. This is the Nationals. If you girls get through, you’ll be invited to try out for the National Team. We’re talking big money, not just prestige. There will be sponsorship deals; Adidas, Leon Paul, everyone will be after you. The world will be your oyster. There’s a lot of money and status involved here. And people are more than happy to get their hands dirty for the sake of that as I know only too well.’
‘Yes, but Mr Wellend, we’re talking about Calypso’s father, Bob,’ Portia reminded him reasonably. ‘Not a BFA saboteur!’ Under her breath, she added, ‘If they even exist.’
‘Look,’ I said, trying to steer things round to the real issue. ‘I just don’t want Sarah upset today, okay? Despite her own problems, she’s backed me all the way this term. She’s really excited about today, and I don’t want Bob upsetting her.’
‘Good woman is Sarah, solid gold. All right, Kelly, leave it to Sister and me. We won’t let this Bob geezer get a look in, will we, Sister?’
‘No, Mr Wellend. We don’t want our dear Sarah upset. I’m knitting her a lovely little mauve collar.’ With that she held up her knitting, and sure enough the beginnings of something mauve and ghastly were already emerging. Knowing Sarah, she’d wear it too. Bless.
‘So, you just focus on your form, Kelly. Leave the externals to us. Now, how many ways of moving forward have you got, girls?’
Portia and I replied, ‘As many as we need,’ and were rewarded with a rare laugh from our fencing master.
Freds had sent me a txt that morning wishing me luck, but I hadn’t expected to see him at the event. But there he was, waiting patiently for us, along with Billy and Malcolm under the arch. I could make out his gorgeousness as we made our way on the long walk down towards the arch of the sports centre.
Despite its name, Crystal Palace wasn’t really a palace, nor was it made of crystal. But it was a massive complex and Freds looked dwarfed as he leaned against the arch with his friends. As he was about to give me a hug, Bell End dropped our kit and grabbed Freds by the collar of his Ralphie. ‘I’ve got other business today, Sonny, but I’ve got your face etched in my mind, filed under ‘enemy,’ s
o don’t think I’m off my guard.’
‘Right, sir, I’ll keep that in mind,’ Freddie replied, calmly rearranging his collar.
Malcolm, who had been smoking a cigarette, flicked it on the ground and put it out with his foot. He extended his hand to Bell End. ‘McHamish,’ he said warmly.
‘Just watch your step, mister. I’ve got your number so I don’t need your name, git it?’
Billy didn’t say anything.
Sister gave Malcolm a shy little wave. ‘Aren’t you a good-looking bunch of chaps? Would you like a biscuit?’ She produced a tin of biscuits from under her voluminous habit. ‘Sister Michael made them, so I don’t recommend you try too many. The last batch she made tasted like worms. She always overdoes the coconut. Hangover from the war.’
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