Saint Augustine’s fencing salle was pretty impressive for a girls’ school – especially given that loads of the girls only took fencing as a way to meet the boys at Eades. We had three pistes, all with the latest electrical point scoring systems installed and a salle d’armes covered in old photographs and fencing memorabilia along the walls. We had once also been fortunate enough to have one of Britain’s top fencing masters, Professor Sullivan.
But those days were gone.
I was really missing Professor Sullivan. I liked to think I was his favourite pupil, based mainly on the fact that he once gave Star and me a lift to Star’s place in London one exeat. That, and the fact that he said he thought I’d ‘go far’. I quite liked the idea that someone thought me capable of going far, as opposed to ‘going too far!’ which is what Bob is always telling me.
There were plenty of younger girls coming up in sabre but Portia and I were the only two really actual sabreurs left in the school now that Star had dropped out. That meant we’d have to rely on someone from the epée team to fence sabre in interschool matches. It wasn’t ideal. We’d had a few practice bouts over the past weeks, and Mr Wellend warned us that he’d be stepping up the pressure in earnest this week. I was quite happy for him to step up the pressure. The BNFTs were coming up after half-term and if I wanted to be included on the US Olympic team I was going to have to make a big impact.
I’d had to force myself to be civil to Portia ever since she’d told me she was going to the ball with Freddie. OK, I know she hadn’t actually said she was going with Freddie but I was uneasy about the situation just the same. She’d passed on Freddie’s message eventually and while it wasn’t the bombshell I’d imagined, it was a massive let down. ‘Tell Calypso I’ll text her.’
I’d had plenty of time to brood about everything and my brooding, coupled with the fact that the only text message I had received from him in the last few days was the one in which I had told him to bugger off (or rather Star had told him on my phone) made me desperately worried.
As I attached Portia’s back to the electrical cord that ran up to the recording device, I was fully aware that I didn’t have the cool head, the sang-froid that Professor Sullivan was always on about.
We have to check that all parts of our electric kit are working before play begins, which you do by tapping your sabre on your sword guard, glove, the lame metal jacket and the mask before the salute. Even as Portia and I tapped our weapons, I felt the rawness of my emotions begin to take over, which manifested when I ‘tapped’ her blade, clean out of her hand.
While sabre is a combat sport, it’s also highly intellectual and requires a great deal of balance. Emotion has no place on the piste, and I was one big ball of emotion as Bell End called the words, ‘En Garde! Ready! Play!’
The attacker in sabre is at an advantage because they can vary their footwork and their method of delivering an attack. Whereas defending at sabre is more difficult as right of way is initially given to the attacker. Although the arm starts moving first, it doesn’t straighten quite as fast as with a thrusting weapon, so even with the electrical recording stuff, it is difficult for the referee/president overseeing the bout to decide who has the right of way. Basically, he’ll be looking for the first person to straighten her arm, which in a nutshell means that you can play dirty.
The object is to make cuts with a hit which registers on the recorder, but not hard enough to hurt your opponent. But if you deliver strong cuts from the elbow, say, you can inflict a lot bruising. Most sabreurs deliver actual cuts from the wrist because, quite apart from hurting your opponent, it gives you more control and accuracy with your weapon.
I could feel my anger towards Portia taking total control of me. I did try and get a grip as I advanced with crossovers down the piste towards Lady Herrington Briggs with her aloof demeanour and her royal ball and possibly Freddie. As much as I knew I needed to clear my head of these thoughts, my heart just wouldn’t let me. What I couldn’t say to her in words, I was going to explain with my blade.
I knew the way Portia thought on the piste. I knew her inclination for speed and accuracy, and she knew my skill for aggressive cuts and my well known talent for elegant prise de fer. We had joked only last week in fact that we could play one another’s game as actors to perfection because we knew each other’s form so well.
I think she knew what was coming when our swords were in line and she first threatened my target area. I stepped forward rapidly without straightening my arm, engaged her blade and as I took it with a classic circular parry of tierce, we were so close it might have looked to an onlooker like a lovers’ embrace. But all the wrong emotions were in that embrace – I was feeling and not paying attention to my footwork. As I made another attack, I lost my footing and fell.
Bell End went ballistic. ‘I told you, think with your brain, move with your body, slam ‘em with your blade, Kelly. That’s slam your opponent, not the bloody floor, ya idiot.’
Bell End may not have been as grand as Professor Sullivan, but he was bang-on in his assessment. I acknowledged this and tried to regain my lost sang-froid. I wasn’t successful though, my humiliation after the stumble had only served to rattle me further. My form didn’t improve and after the bout, Portia and I took off our masks and shook hands formally, but neither of us spoke to the other. She knew what I knew now. I had it in for her.
Bell End was furious. ‘Never seen such a waste of electricity in me life. And you’re meant to be the captain of the bloody team, Kelly. One more performance like that and you can wave goodbye to your captaincy.’
‘Yes, Bell End – I mean, Mr Wellend,’ I agreed, as the tears welled in my eyes. I knew I was out of line . . . and worse, so did Portia. While we were showering and changing back into our uniforms, she didn’t so much as look at me. She wasn’t the sort of girl to have an argument. She was too regal and well brought up for that, and I didn’t have the mettle to engage with her off the piste.
So there it was. Thanks to my own jealousy, I was now living in a dorm with two girls who hated me. I suspect Bell End was starting to think along the same lines as Bob – I was going too far.
As I lay in bed that night I realised I had behaved badly and I wanted to apologise, but I couldn’t in front of Honey. And later when Honey started snoring and Portia was turning her light out, my shame only served to render me mute.
She wished me good night, though.
‘Good night, Portia,’ I replied in a tone that suggested we were as close as we had been the first week of term.
With Honey’s evil on one side of me and Portia’s disdain on the other, a sense of isolation engulfed me.