A Royal Mess

by Tyne O'Connell

  THIRTY

  He Made It Seem Like the Most

  Sensible Thing in the World …

  As we came out of the salle, Malcolm grabbed my hand and pulled me aside. ‘Can we talk?’ I looked down at his hand holding mine, but I didn’t pull it away. I was feeling high and positive, and actually it felt rather nice, especially when he took my shoulder-biting fencing kit from me and put it on his own shoulder.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked, but all he did was pull me behind the old Medici church and kiss me long and hard. I know when boys kiss you you’re meant to go off to a dreamy cloudland of magical warmth and loveliness, but I have that sort brain that never switches off. I couldn’t help comparing Malcolm’s kissing to Freds’. Which was totally wrong and shallow, I know. But Malcolm’s pulling style was molto passionate.

  Kissing Freds was cloudlandy. At the time, I always thought it the apex of loveliness, but it was different to kissing Malcolm. Malcolm took a strand of my wet hair and placed it behind my ear and smiled. I ruffled his red hair and looked into his luminous green eyes and studied his face. Just as I was memorising it, he locked his lips on mine and did that dip thing again.

  Suddenly he pulled me up as a priest was walking past. He said hello to the young priest in Italian and they had a short chat. I nodded and smiled and laughed when they laughed, but they may well have been discussing trigonometry.

  Eventually Father went off to do a spot of shopping – well, that was my assessment – and Malcolm turned his mega-watt personality back onto me. ‘I need your help,’ he told me seriously.

  I thought he wanted to kiss me again and puckered up.

  ‘No, seriously. I think I’ve found the perfect subject for the film I came here to make.’

  ‘I thought you came here to film Billy.’

  ‘Did I tell you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He ran his hands through his hair, and for a moment he reminded me of Freds – an older, strawberry-blond, more eccentric Freds. ‘I wonder if that’s what I meant to do. Anyway, something happened this morning. I have to show it to you; I want your opinion. It was the maddest thing, really – the way it all came about. I went off this morning to get my nipple pierced and –’

  ‘Wait, why did you get your nipple pierced?’ I asked, trying to keep all judgment from my mind as I remembered my own navel-piercing fiasco in Los Angeles last summer.

  ‘Eyebrow piercing is so passé,’ he said, as if this should be all the explanation I deserved. Boys! ‘And well, only hippies and bikers do their ears or lips, don’t they?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I replied, quite glad he hadn’t said anything about navel piercing being passé.

  ‘And on consideration I’m pretty certain the madre would have an embolism if I pierced my face. I did consider a wrist piercing, but only briefly. The chap who did the deed, nice guy, bit of a freak, but anyway point is, he had his wrist pierced. It was the darndest of darn things. I’ve never considered piercing my wrist before. But I’m not sure it wouldn’t become a bit of a nuisance, you know with cuffs and all that.’ Then he started looking at old footage in his video camera.

  ‘But I don’t understand why you had to get anything pierced?’ I told him.

  ‘What?’ he looked up. Clearly he’d completely lost the thread of the conversation.

  ‘Why get anything pierced?’

  He appeared to consider this for a while. ‘I see what you’re saying. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but anyway, the point is, look, let me show you –’

  I took a step back. ‘Take it away. I don’t want to see your nipple!’ I squealed. I like to think I’m a girl made of strong American fibre, but I was not a studier of fresh nipple piercings – or old ones for that matter. Star, Georgina and I had had our navels pierced last summer. It was a bonding sort of thing. But mine had gone septic, and Sarah had made me take it out after a showdown with the poor guy who’d performed the deed. No, I was off body piercing for life.

  Malcolm ruffled my hair and laughed. ‘I wasn’t going to show you my nipple,’ he assured me. ‘Besides, I bottled out at the last minute.’ Then he grabbed my hand and insisted I come with him to see something ‘incredibly cool.’

  Incredibly cool, incredibly cool. I kept repeating the phrase to myself as he dragged me through the bright winter streets of Florence. I couldn’t stop wondering, what in algebra’s name would a boy like Malcolm consider ‘incredibly cool’? Not cool, mind you, but incredibly cool.

  ‘Is it a really amazing Renaissance painting? I know, we’re going to the Uffizi to see the Botticelli room?’

  He laughed. ‘That’s in the other direction. Just wait and see.’

  ‘I know, a vinyl shop? We’re going to a vinyl shop so you can buy old eighties recordings of tragic, I mean cool, Italian bands no one else has heard of.’ Star told me that boys love obscure indie bands they imagine no one else has heard of. But then Malcolm wasn’t most boys.

  ‘No,’ he told me firmly. ‘Just wait and see.’

  And then I saw a cinema in the distance. ‘I know, I know. It’s an arty Italian movie?’ Oh yes, that seemed likely.

  ‘No.’ He pulled me along faster. ‘Just wait, we’re almost there.’ We turned down a dark, narrow lane where we passed a shop that sold motor scooter parts and then a shop that did tattoos and body piercing. Malcolm waved to the guy inside, whose entire body was glinting with piercings. I began to hyperventilate, but we didn’t stop there, thank goodness.

  ‘I know, you’ve discovered an amazing crumbling-down old building that a mad dead Medici lived in. Everyone’s forgotten about it and stopped searching. But you’ve found it, all vine-covered, and you alone have realised what it really is, and you’ve started–’

  ‘You really should become an author, Calypso. Your imagination needs a larger canvas.’

  Of course I was madly flattered and started walking on air. Freds had never even noticed my creative spirit. He just thought I was mad. I made a mental note to tell Miss Topler that my mind needs a larger canvas than her class.

  ‘We’re here,’ Malcolm said, gesturing to a shop front. ‘Now you can satisfy your curiosity to your heart’s delight.’

  We were standing outside a pet shop. I looked at Malcolm’s face, but his eyes were fixed on something inside. I mean, I’m as keen on pets as the next girl, but as you can’t bring animals into the UK without inserting microchips into their ears and getting them special pet passports. It’s not really the sort of shop you’d look out for a souvenir. Well, I don’t. I worry I’d fall in love with a kitten or puppy or a hamster, and then it would be an awful wrench, knowing I couldn’t take it home with me.

  I wasn’t wildly keen on going inside and finding something too cute to leave behind, so I said, ‘So what, it’s just a pet shop. That’s hardly incredibly cool. They’re everywhere.’

  Malcolm jerked me inside. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to a large wooden crate that was full of tiny paper boxes that looked a bit like Chinese takeaway boxes. They were all open and empty apart from one box where a tiny little black-speckled duckling was frantically flapping and peeping.

  ‘Oh bless!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘When I came in here this morning to contemplate the piercing, every one of these cartons here was full of ducklings. I stood here and filmed as customer after customer came into the shop and bought a duckling. I was here for, oh, I don’t know, about an hour.’ He then spoke to the pet shop owner in Italian.

  The guy replied without looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘Yes, Giuseppe thinks it was a bit over an hour. And in that time, every other duckling was sold. Except for this little chap.’

  The tiny duckling had his miniature bill in the air. He appeared to be looking and talking directly at us. ‘Peep, peep, peep, peep!’ Honestly, it was the most adorable sight I had ever seen. Even Dorothy wasn’t as cute as the duckling, which made me feel disloyal just to think such a thought.

  ‘Can we hold him?’ I asked
Giuseppe in my best Italian accent. But Giuseppe didn’t seem to understand my wonderful Italianised English.

  Malcolm asked the owner in Italian for me, but I could tell the answer was no because of all the head shaking and arm waving that went on.

  ‘Apparently he won’t let us because last month someone picked up one of his ducklings and dropped it on the floor and broke its wing,’ Malcolm translated.

  All the while the little duckling was going ‘peep, peep, peep!

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t anyone buy him? He’s adorable.’

  ‘Yaah, I agree,’ Malcolm said as he filmed the duckling peeping piteously. ‘They don’t like his mottled colours, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, that’s soooo mean. That’s what gives him his character.’

  Malcolm was taking some close-up footage as he replied. ‘I agree.’

  I couldn’t bear it. I really couldn’t bear it. The duckling wouldn’t stop peeping and flapping its stunted little wings. Where was its mother? Where were its friends? Where was its pond to play in? It was horrible and I was powerless to help, so I ran out of the shop and down the lane.

  Malcolm caught up with me and hugged me tightly into his chest. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. See, I’m stuck and need your help. I wanted to do a short of all the customers frantically scooping up their ducks and buying them, but then when no one scooped up Rex – that’s what I’ve named him, by the way – it went from being an art-house documentary to a tragedy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I can’t show this on Film Night at Eades. Everyone would walk out in despair. No, I need to find a happy ending. Someone has to buy that duckling. I’ve paid the guy for Rex already and said he can offer him for free. So, hopefully when we come back tomorrow he’ll be sold.’

  I clung to Malcolm like I clung to the hope that Rex would find his home. I felt so emotional. Not just because I was touched by the plight of Rex, but because I was touched that Malcolm had taken me to the pet shop. I was touched that he wanted to share the whole thing with me. He was not your ordinary boy. I mean, of course I already knew that, but now I could hear Star egging me on. Saying, ‘Go for it, Calypso, he’s so the one.’

  Maybe she was right. Unlike Freds, Malcolm was anything but ordinary.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of the End

  That evening was a quiet one. Jenny went to bed in a strop. ‘That bloody Italian cheated, and that wanker of a president saw it,’ she railed.

  ‘Professor Sullivan sees everything,’ Portia told her, her black eyes flashing. ‘He’s the most upright man you’re ever likely to meet.’

  Jenny flounced out of the room muttering obscenities. ‘I think I almost prefer Honey,’ I told Portia later. ‘At least she’s a worthy combatant.’

  ‘You just think that because Honey’s hundreds of miles away, Calypso. It’s like in that song, “If you can’t be with the one you hate, hate the one you’re with.”’

  Portia can be molto wise. Probably all those generations of inbreeding.

  We went to bed early, leaving the nuns to play cards with Bell End and Signora. In the morning we showered and bathed and made ourselves look molto gorgeous for the tournament. Except for Jenny, who exuded horribleness. Even though she’d been culled, Biffy was making her attend the tournament to boost team spirit. Spectators were allowed today, so the nuns were up at breakfast, bright-eyed with excitement.

  ‘Signora helped make a banner,’ Sister Regina announced proudly as she and Sister Bethlehem held up a white tablecloth.

  ‘But Sisters, there’s nothing written on it,’ I said, hating to be the one to burst their bubble. Poor mad little things.

  The Sisters exchanged a knowing look, at least I think that’s what it was. It’s hard to tell with those big thick spectacles. Then they turned their cloth around, which took a while because they kept getting twisted up in it. But eventually the reverse side was displayed.

  The words GREAT BRITAIN RULES THE PISTE were painted professionally in red and blue paint.

  Portia and I gave them a cuddle.

  Bell End said, ‘That’s the spirit, Sisters, we’ll show them.’ Then he turned to us. ‘Right, girlies, today’s the day you rend the flesh from the bones of the fascist Italian witches. No backbone, these Italians, see, no front bone for that matter. A bunch of big girls’ floral blouses with bows on them. No, Great Britain will wipe the salle with their Italian blood. They can bloody well go home and cry in the bosoms of their mothers.’

  ‘Mr Wellend, I think you’ll find this is their home. We’re what’s known as the visiting team,’ The Commodore explained, laughing into his walrus moustache.

  ‘Not for long, Biff, not for long. Fencing’s not a game, as well you know, my old comrade. It’s war! Yesterday we let them think we were a bunch of wets. Well, not today! Not today. If blood must be spilled, better theirs than ours is what I say. To your arms, girls, to your arms!’ he yelled – and then he blew his whistle.

  ‘Okay, thank you, Mr Wellend, most colourful,’ Biffy responded patronisingly. ‘But I think you’ll find I’m the manager here, and well, to strike a more instructive note, let’s just say, may the best team win.’

  God I hated him.

  Bell End wasn’t going to have Biffy pop his mad balloon, though. ‘Have their guts for garters!’ he cried, and we all punched the air with our fists and cheered.

  Jenny said, ‘God, you are soooo stupid.’

  ‘You’re the bloody idiot that got knocked out in the pools, yer big girl’s blouse,’ Bell End reminded her.

  The boys from the Eades Film Society were waiting for us at the salle where the beautiful Carlotta and her teammates were ready to rinse us. Malcolm was there filming away, and I gave him a little wave. I put on a brave face, which fortified me a bit, but the calibre of these girls was the alpha and omega of perfection – and I don’t just mean their looks. As we started our stretches, a mighty roar erupted from the Eades boys, which made me blush. Then they started on a series of chavie football chants.

  ‘Eng-ga-land! Eng-ga-land!’

  As play was called for the first match, their cries intensified to include classic hits of the football stadiums.

  Itwas soooo embarrassing. Especially when I lost my bout.

  As I saluted my opponent in the next bout, I went into a zanshin – a samurai swordsman state of being. Zanshin is a state of mind of complete action when there is no time to take back or fix a stroke or a stride. Zanshin means going beyond technique, because you can’t force your opponent to conform to your moves in the way you want. The angle and force of a strike must be adjusted immediately to the energy of your opponent.

  I emptied my mind of the English cheer squad. I emptied my mind of Freds and Malcolm and the duckling and asked for divine guidance.

  Professor Sullivan and Bell End had two very different styles. Professor Sullivan was all about speed and efficiency and the physical game of chess. Bell End was more a slam ‘em with your blade and rain on their parade sort of guy. I wondered what would happen if I drew on both styles for inspiration. As ‘play’ was called, I was psyched for an aggressive game of chess.

  I scored my first hit with a classic Professor Sullivan manoeuvre: advancing down the piste in a seemingly obvious attack by threatening my opponent with a cut to the head. This provoked her into a parry of quinte. I rotated my blade to score an effortless cut to her flank. The point was mine, and we returned to the en guard line. As I’d hoped, my opponent’s mind ran along predictable lines, which I used to my advantage throughout the game.

  The bout was mine. As I was being wired up for my next bout, I ignored my aching muscles and throbbing bruises and remained totally zanshin. I kept up the game of bluff and double bluff, going in for the aggressive attack only to slay her with an unexpected manoeuvre. Professor Sullivan had always been big on wrist action, and I used the adroit strength of my wrists to full advantage that da
y.

  As I made my way back to the en guard line between each point, I was vaguely aware of Bell End blowing his whistle while running up and down the various pistes like a madman. I closed my mind and went back to my zanshin state so that his violent instructions to ‘slay the filthy witches’ would fall on deaf ears.

  I won each bout using the same Professor Sullivan/Bell End combination of tactics. Yet despite my own personal victories, ultimately the Great British team was proclaimed the loser.

  I know this probably sounds like I’m not a team player, but actually I didn’t feel that bad about losing our first international match, because something extraordinary had happened to me on the Italian piste that day. I had metamorphosed into a totally different sabreur than the one who had left England just two days before. By fusing the finesse of Professor Sullivan with the brutality of Bell End I had developed the ability to deliver a ferocious onslaught on the head of a pin. The speed and ferocity of the Italians had taught me that Bell End was right; you needed a lot of aggression to be a sabreur. But Professor Sullivan was right as well; your aggression had to be tempered with precise manoeuvres and intellectual finesse. The British team had lost this time, but I’d played well. Next time we’d wipe the floor with our opponents.