by Janet Pywell
‘It’s only a harmless bit of fun but it beats being a nurse for a couple of hours.’ I kiss his forehead. He’s so much better looking that the two Swedish men. ‘I thought we’d have stew for dinner, my darling. I hope you’re hungry?’
As usual he doesn’t reply.
I turn his wheelchair toward the kitchen. Since the motorcycle accident his brain is damaged. He doesn’t understand much of what I say and he can’t concentrate for long. It would be another long evening but at least it was fun in the bar tonight.
Jan d'Artagnan
I join the group of strangers standing in the hallway waiting for the soccer game in the gym to finish.
‘Are you here for the class?’ I ask a blond woman almost a decade older than me.
She’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the door. Her eyes narrow and she looks me up and down, taking in my baggy track-pants but I’m not intimidated - I’m actually heartened.
Great! I’m not the only beginner in their fifties taking their first class.
She replies with a French accent. ‘I’m Marie, the fencing instructor but I only take on those who are willing to learn.’
My eager smile fades but I manage to reply. ‘Wow, you’re the instructor. Have you been fencing for long?’ I speak quickly, hoping to cover my shock and creeping embarrassment.
‘All my life. Fencing originated in Germany then it went to France, and then to Italy. It’s still relatively unknown here. Why do you want to learn?’
‘I’ve always wanted to,’ I pause. I don’t say that I grew up dreaming of being Robin Hood or one of the Three Musketeers or even the elusive El Zorro. I resist slashing an imaginary letter Z in the air and leaping about and instead I say. ‘I like the art and the elegance of the sport.’
‘You need great discipline, both physical and mental.’
The gym doors open and we stand aside as young footballers spill out. As we file inside Marie continues speaking to me. ‘Run up and down and get warm. The others won’t do it but you will feel the benefit of it.’
With that she strides off to the far end of the hall, her head held high and her nose in the air.
A chubby chap holds out his hand and smiles. ‘I’m Bob. I teach the young ones - and the beginners - you’re very welcome.’
‘Great - thank you.’
A few adults have thrown their kit on the floor at the edge of the gym and are changing into their fencing gear but my enthusiasm is curtailed when I see the young boys around me. They all look very small and vulnerable.
I count seven children - all small - they barely reach my shoulder and I resit the urge to sing a chorus of ‘Hi Ho, Hi Ho…’
No one is running up and down and I think that I’d look like a lunatic tearing up and down on my own, so I hover around Bob like a young puppy and he throws me a chest protector.
‘Put that on!’
It’s a - a breastplate. I think of Miranda Hart looking into the camera and mouthing the word: breastplate.
I want to giggle but I settle for a smile, bite my lips and suppress a splutter of nervous laughter.
Beside me the dwarfs are slipping into their straight-jackets so I slide my arms inside surprised at the bulky heavy protection and feeling decidedly uncomfortable and upset - I’d always wanted a red cape. The zip is at the back and I can’t reach it. I try and make eye contact with a twelve year-old hoping for a volunteer to ‘do me up’ but sensibly he averts his eyes. They all do. Thinking that it’s maybe a female thing I walk down to the end of the hall and approach Marie.
She’s now dressed regally and professionally in her white fencing suit. Much more elegant than my black baggy tracksuit and gaping straight-jacket.
I make a mental note to self: Must buy fencing gear.
Marie growls at me. ‘You don’t need to wear that now.’ She turns to a tall, handsome swordsman called Oscar. Like her, he’s dressed in white. His fencing outfit shows his narrow waist and broad shoulders. His serious brown eyes don’t leave her face when she rattles off a few sentences in German then without taking a breath, she ends in English.‘So, get her warmed up,’ she says.
I turn away.
No Miranda: no camera and definitely no giggling.
He frowns seriously. ‘We’ll run eight widths of the hall,’ he says. ‘But it’s busy tonight so we may have to dodge some people.’
I haven’t run for over forty-five years, since my last sports day at junior school but now it seems I’m training with the elite fencing squad. I stand proudly to attention and I want to shout: ‘All for one and One for All,’ but without a sword in my hand I’d look a right idiot. So, I follow him gallantly. Trotting behind, gazing at his gazelle-like legs and his broad shoulders, trying to look elegant. I suppress a splutter of laughter trying not to think of Miranda galloping her imaginary steed across the gym.
When we reach the far wall, he says, ‘Let’s pick up speed.’
Oh, let’s!
He isn’t joking. I run back across the gym chasing after this handsome twenty-year old like a cougar on heat. For the first time in over three decades I’m running and I’m also feeling very out of breath and extremely hot.
We’re on our last lap and sprinting like we’re going for an Olympic Gold when a boy steps mistakenly into my path. He screams. I gasp. He squeals and I duck. I dodge just time and avoid a nasty accident but I feel the angry heat of his gaze on my perspiring back as I trot bravely (and tiredly) back to Marie.
I’m panting hard. My breathing is heaving from my chest cavity in rasping sobs as if it’s been imprisoned for eternity. I’m bent double hoping she hasn’t witnessed the small incident: that’s before I’ve even touched a sword - and I’m relieved when she ignores me and starts speaking to Oscar.
But it’s another barked order and Oscar indicates for me to sit on the floor beside him. Lovely. But then we stretch - and stretch some more and I’m stretching muscles that have lain dormant longer than Mount Fuji. I’m ready to close my eyes. I’d be quite happy to lie back and rest but Oscar insists that we stretch just that tiny bit more. It’s only when he gives me a small smile with his handsome hazel eyes that I’m encouraged and I just hope I haven’t done any permanent damage.
I hurt. It hurts. My whole body is exhausted.
Oscar is Marie’s best student and I stand up as as they take up their positions, trying to regain my breath wishing my face wasn’t so hot wondering if I’ll ever feel normal again.
The warm up is obviously over and I’m ignored so I wander back to Bob and the children at the other end of the hall. I’m hoping they won’t recognise me as the Olympic athlete who crashed into them earlier.
‘What do you want to do?’ Bob asks me smiling.
Is there a bar? A gin and tonic would be nice.
‘Would you like to join in here?’ He nods at the group of small boys standing with him.
Hi Ho, Hi Ho.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ I reply.
I smile when he hands me a sword. It’s the first time I’ve ever held a real one so I weigh it professionally, tossing it from one hand to the other and weaving it in small ever decreasing circles feeling its weight. This is what it must have been like for Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan when they held their weapon.
Suddenly I want to leap and lunge like El Zoro. Maybe I could even get a black mask-
‘Oops, that’s the wrong one,’ Chis says, taking it carefully from me. ‘That’s a Sabre, you need a Foil.’
‘Oh, no. I thought my hair was fine.’ I pat my head reluctant to give up my sword.
But he doesn’t hear me or if he does, he doesn’t smile.
With a Foil in my hand and my pulse racing excitedly I line up alongside the seven to fourteen-year olds. Conscious that I’m the tall, older one at the end of the row. But I stand with my shoulders back, upright and proud. We are all clad in straight-jackets and face guards. We’re like soldiers. White warriors.
All for One, I want to sc
ream.
Wearing a face guard is like having a bird cage stuck on your head. It’s like I’m underwater with a mask over my face and I’m listening to my own loud rasping breath. The warm up has exhausted me and I swat away the perspiration that trickles down my neck as if it’s an annoying ant.
Bob takes us through the rudimentary steps; all new to me but familiar to the younger boys. He recaps on previous lessons reminding them of the necessary skills. Basically; bend your knees, balance and with your left arm in the air behind you, thrust forward with your right arm holding the sword - maintaining your balance equally and not bouncing. Professionally known as: On Guard, To Parry, The Riposte and To Lunge.
That is definite a Miranda word and one I wanted to repeat continuously:
Lungggge.
It’s my nerves and fortunately I’m distracted.
I’m paired with James. He is the tallest boy and nearer my height than any of the others. He’s also well padded so guess it won’t hurt if I stab him.
Armed with my Foil and knowing how to step forward and then back again with my knees bent I’m excited. The tension is rising in me as quickly as my body temperature is heating my blood. All my childhood memories come racing back to me. Like when I was Robin Hood, pretending I was climbing trees in Sherwood Forest and brandishing my sword at the rich people saying I wanted to take their money and give it to the poor.
Poor James.
He takes my full onslaught.
My enthusiasm is mixed with my memories: Parry, Riposte and Lunge. I’m robbing Kings and Knights alike. I’m chasing men who want to kill the King. I’m in a battle and fighting warriors, protecting the castle, the tower, and the drawbridge.
Ten minutes of fielding my attack and James stands aside and removes his helmet. I imagine his face is the same shade of peach as mine and his cheeks are like giant throbbing beach-balls. He congratulates me and smiles gallantly. ‘5:4 – not bad for a beginner.’
‘You were impressive,’ I reply not realising he was keeping score. My ego is boosted and I puff out my chest. My childhood has been reawakened. I’m young again. I have a purpose. My cheeks glow and my chest heaves heavily.
As we catch our breath James tells me he’s been fencing for a few years. He becomes my teacher and for a few minutes he gives me advice then he says. ‘Don’t waggle your Foil in small circles like I do, you’re not at that stage yet.’
Um.
That doesn’t sit well with me. I’m obviously not experienced enough for any Foil waggling and I can’t pretend I don’t feel a pang of disappointment but fortunately I’m distracted when I’m paired with a new boy.
He looks terrified.
Before we all begin again, fencing in pairs, Bob reminds us of the proper lunge positions and I put on my face guard. Once we start I quickly advance and the opposition beats a hasty retreat which only makes me more enthusiastic. I’m winning. I attack by tapping his sword away and quickly dipping my own point into his small chest and my Foil bends as I stab him. My energy, swordsmanship and manic eyes probably makes him step quickly backwards and he stumbles over his own feet.
I’m El Zoro. I take no prisoners. No matter how old they are.
I parry and I lunge.
Bob is clearly impressed. He stands between me and the boy.
‘Good. Good. Well done. You’ve passed. Marie will take you on. You can go and join her.’
I want to punch the air with my fist. ‘Fantastic.’ But it doesn’t seem appropriate so I strut – my best musketeer walk with my helmet tucked under my arm toward the elite group at the end of the gym where I firmly believe I belong.
I’m no longer a fifty-year old beginner - I’m one of the elite;
one of Marie’s troops. She only takes the best.
She nods curtly at me.
We place our helmets on and she walks around me, staring at me like I’m an exotic specimen in a jam-jar.
‘Let me look at you. Bend your knees, like this. Find your balance.’
I am at this moment still trying to find my breath. I’m panting heavily inside my face-mask and it’s stifling. I’m like a heavy breathing psychopath. A mass murderer in one of those ghastly film that’s on late and terrifies me. I’m even scaring myself.
I wonder if Marie can hear me?
‘On guard,’ she says raising her sword vertically to her nose.
I do the same. I’m ready to fight. I will not be defeated. She would be tame compared to all the enemies I fought off growing up. I defeated all the baddies. I took their silver, their horses and I robbed their homes - and all to save the poor.
She may see the hungry look in my eyes or maybe she’s aware of my shortness of breath because she lowers her defence and says crisply. ‘This is a discipline of the mind and of the body. It takes practise. Not one hour a week but serious, dedicated time, hours of repetition. It’s not how quickly you brandish your sword or how wild you are. It’s how little you move it. That’s where the skill lies. When you attack and throw your sword in wide movements then the power is lost.’
I’m reprimanded.
It dawns on me then that I have behaved like a middle aged, hysterical nutcase. I’ve been enthusiastically attacking my opponents. I’d expected a full-on swashbuckling adventure while all the young boys were cowering behind their face guards behaving professionally. I feel ridiculous. On top of that my calves ache and I’m exhausted but Marie’s next programme consists of me standing and lunging at her torso.
She doesn’t fight back.
‘The point of your sword should hit me here.’ She bangs her chest. ‘Your Foil should bend like this.’ She moves forward against my sword so it bends into an upward arch. ‘Lunge again. Good. Very good!’
Once again, I’m encouraged and my youthful vigour and enthusiasm returns.
‘Move forward with your front leg, slide in one movement,’ she orders. ‘Not like this.’ She imitates my three clumsy movements and I laugh and take off my helmet using the moment to cool down. I wish I’d brought some water with me. My face is pulsating like a giant plum and I’m giggling hysterically unwilling to meet her serious eyes.
She stares at me. She can’t take her eyes off me. Then very slowly she says. ‘I think that is enough for one day.’
I glance at the clock. There’s still ten minutes of the class remaining but I have been dismissed.
We shake hands and I thank her.
‘You will need your own equipment – if you come back.’
I nod. My breathing is failing me. Words fail me. My body has failed. I stand panting beside the wall. My helmet on the ground at my feet. It’s hard to wiggle out of a straight jacket with the zip at the back so I give up. The rest of the class is fencing and I feign interest, watching the restrained lunge, riposte and parry.
It’s all very civilised.
Not like in the films.
Why they have let me go early?Is my face too red?
Bob comes over to me. ‘Are you going to have another go?’
‘Marie seems to think I’ve had enough.’
‘You’ll get in the car on the way home and wished you’d had another go…’ he smiles.
I nod. ‘You’re right.’ I pick up my helmet and although my knees are still shaking and my muscles are aching there’s nothing like a bit of excitement to give me a kick-start and a quiver of pleasure.
Bob partners me with Mark.
‘This is a mega work out,’ I say delaying the moment I would have to lunge, parry and repose. ‘I never realised this fencing business took so much energy.’
‘For me too.’ He’s mid-forties, ten years younger than me, and he tells me James is his son.
‘He’s a brave lad.’ I can hardly speak. My head is dizzy and my throat dry. ‘I think I was probably too eager with him.’
I put on my mask, raise my right arm and point my Foil at his chest. Pleased to be fighting a proper man.
On guard.
Mark is controlled, calm and sleek
. All the things I’m not. But I do have enthusiasm on my side. It’s All for One. I brandish my sword. I attack, parry and I lunge.
3:2.
I lose.
I pull of my helmet. Gasping. Thirsty and tired.
I like Mark and because he’s an adult I think I can confide in him.
‘I have to get into shape,’ I gasp.
‘It’s great way to stay fit,’ he agrees panting. His trimmed beard covers his red-hot cheeks.
Could I have beard envy?
I turn my back on him as if we’re alone in a bedroom. ‘Would you mind?’
He unzips me and I’m conscious that it’s quite an intimate moment and he’s extremely close to my sweating body.
‘Wearing one of these is like being in the bake-off tent,’ I laugh for distraction and he grins. ‘Miranda Hart. Sue Perkins. Far too much television,’ I continue babbling. My brain is whirling in another direction completely.
Maybe I should stick to baking?
NO never! Thank goodness I have a new past-time. A new hobby.
Fencing.
The class are changing into their normal clothes and Bob stands beside me. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
He can’t seem to take his eyes off my face and I beam back at him. Satisfied, excited and weirdly content. I don’t tell him this is where my destiny lies and it’s something I’ve always wanted to learn.
‘Are you coming back next week?’ he asks.
‘Definitely.’ My breathing is still heavy and my voice husky. ‘And I’ll bring some water with me next time.’
Thrilled to be part of the new elite group I wave and thank everyone in sight, beaming happily and as I leave the building my strut is confident. I imagine I’m dressed in high boots and a wide brimmed hat with feather plumes as I toss the long red cloak over my shoulder.
Outside in the fresh air my forehead is sweaty. My hair sticks out and my T-shirt is glued to my back. I ease myself gently into my car. My back is breaking and my muscles are aching like I’ve been chasing and galloping after bandits through a deep dark forest.
What an adventure.
I yawn.
Although it’s February and only three degrees outside. I’m sweltering. I ease down the window and open the sunroof of my red Fiat 127. It slides back and I look up at the star studded night-sky just as Robin might have done in Sherwood Forest, or the Three Musketeers on one of their adventures. I’m pleased I’m not camping in any woodlands and I start the engine thinking of a cold shower and comfy pyjamas.