Free A Royal Mess by Tyne O’Connell

please come forward, as we are short of referees today.’
Bell End suddenly appeared out of nowhere and sprinted swiftly towards the other end of the hall like he was about to receive another Olympic medal. Sister Regina started to clap and cheer him on. Sarah, looking a little dazed, joined her.
‘Let’s do some stretches,’ I suggested to Portia in the hope that in doing a few low lunges, Sarah wouldn’t be able to spot us.
‘Can Simon Tyler please report to sign in, as you have not yet registered?’ blared a voice over the loudspeaker.
‘Everything seems so disorganised,’ Portia remarked as people stepped over us. ‘I don’t have a clue what we’re meant to be doing. There’s no boards about pools or where we’re meant to be fencing, nothing.’
‘Attention!’ the announcer called over the loudspeaker. The girls’ pools will be starting shortly. And I repeat, Simon Tyler, report to registration, NOW!’ Then the names for the girls’ pools were rattled off.
This is it,’ I said to Portia as several names were called and asked to assemble at piste 5. Portia’s name came up in the next lot of pools being held on piste 6. My name was called to the pools being held at piste 7.
Well, should we shake hands or something, do you think?’ I blurted in that special idiotic way I have.
I was feeling the adrenaline begin to course through my veins as the calls for Simon Tyler to come to registration became increasingly threatening.
‘No, I think we should hug,’ Portia insisted. And so we did.
Of course, my mother and Sister Regina had also heard our names called and were waiting for me at piste 7 with a banner they’d cobbled together out of a stolen tablecloth. They were clutching it with the pride of two women who’ve just knitted a quilt.
It read – and this causes me some agony to relay – ‘Go Boojie! Go!’ The words were written in jam.
And then out of the blue I wished Bob were there. He’d know just what to say – even if it was one of his stupid gridiron football chants from his college years. Also, Bob actually did know quite a bit about fencing, whereas Sarah’s support was purely emotional.
The other girls assembled at my piste began to giggle as I approached and Sarah and Sister Regina began to chant, ‘Go Boojie! Go!’ Unfortunately I don’t think anyone was in any doubt as to who Boojie was.
Bell End strode over to our piste in a very authoritative manner with a referee’s clipboard. As he was to preside over our bouts, he didn’t make eye contact with me.
He had an officious air about him as he said, ‘Right, first up, Kelly and Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip. And ladies,’ headded, looking over at Sister and Sarah sternly, ‘I think we can dispense with the banner for the pools.’
‘Boooooh!’ Sister and Sarah called out. ‘Spoilsport!’
It was conflicting on so many levels. Part of me was relieved and the other part felt sorry for the sweet effort Sister and Sarah had put into their banner, even if it was a banner of shame. Also, I just knew that if Bob were here he would have stuck up for their right to express themselves.
Rogers-Staughten-bloody-Bowhip wasn’t conflicted, though. She was in spasms of laughter as she shook my hand. But then another random girl hooked me up from the back, which made me feel like maybe I wasn’t the total object of ridicule I imagined.
Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip was practically choking on her own mirth during the salute, and I caught a look in Bell End’s eye. It was just a glance, but he seemed to be reminding me of what I was there for. If Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip thought she could intimidate me over a banner crafted of jam by a four foot nun and a regressing runaway mother, she was about to discover that she was very much mistaken.
From the moment ‘play’ was called, I could already taste victory. ‘You are Jerzy Pawlowski,’ I told myself. Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip’s ridicule was to cost her dearly, because all my emotions fell away. As I