of an alternative, but I owed it to Sarah to be there for her in her time of need. There was no way out. As I composed the txt the next evening, little tears banked up behind my eyes at the thought that I wasn’t going to see Freds on Sunday andfeel his lovely lips on mine, or smell the lovely lemony smell of his neck.
Soz, but Sunday isn’t go to work, the madres in town and wants me all to herself. Next Saturday though promise, xxxx Calypso
I watched the screen of my mobile for what seemed like an eternity, but there was no response, and eventually I had to go off to study period. I told myself that he was obviously wildly busy … either that or furious and planning to dump me.
By Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., when my alarm woke us for our drive up to the tournament in Sheffield, Freds still hadn’t responded to my txts. Yes, tragic as it sounds, I’d sent several txts because each time I told myself he was probably in divs (that’s what they call lessons at Eades) or chapel, or well, just very, very busy loading up his iPod. After my recent phone txt face-off with Freddie before half-term – which turned out to be all Honey’s fault – I wasn’t going to let any sort of misunderstanding between us happen again.
After Freds’ reaction to Honey selling that mobile phone snap to the tabloids, Star has always thought Freddie was overly keen on himself. She’s always telling me I’m too good for him, but then she’s so fiercely loyal she doesn’t think any boy is good enough for me. I hadn’t told Star that I had chucked meeting Freds on Sundayaltogether because I didn’t want him to meet my regressing madre. She would not have been impressed by that, nor, deep down, was, I, but… well, I could hardly have Sarah baby talking to the heir to the throne, could I? In the past three days she’d called me diddums, like, nine times! Diddums? What was I, a cat?
On Saturday morning, Portia and I dressed in our jeans and hoodies in the en suite so as not to wake Honey, who was snoring so loudly, I swear, it’s a miracle she doesn’t ever wake herself up. Then we rushed down the stairs with our torches and out across the damp lawn to the nun’s house, where the tiny little form of Sister Regina was already at the door waiting for us in an overexcited state. She was hopping from one foot to the other.
It had been decided by Sister Constance that one of the nuns should chaperone us to the tournament, and so they’d had a raffle and the lucky winner was Sister Regina. After a lot of nun-ish clucking and cuddling and telling us how all the other nuns were sick with jealously, she led us into the kitchen of the convent, which hadn’t been updated since the fifties.
She’d cooked us a full English breakfast, bless her. Well, you’ll need the nutrition with all that swordplay you’ll be doing. And I’ve packed tuna sandwiches for the journey!’
‘Oh, that’s really sweet, Sister,’ Portia and I told her.
‘Only, don’t say a word to Sister Michael, because it was her tin of tuna I stole.’
‘Sister!’ we chastised.
‘Oh, stop. We each get a little treat in the weekly shop, see, only I always choose cigarettes,’ she explained, dropping her voice to a low whisper.
‘Sister, that’s very, very naughty. Now we’ll feel guilty,’ Portia teased. ‘Poor Sister Michael.’
‘Oh, shush,’ she said, cackling wickedly as she bustled busily about the kitchen, dishing out the eggs, bacon, sausages, toast and baked beans onto the old, chipped green plates. ‘Sister Michael won’t even remember she ordered it. She’s about to reach her century in another month, she is.’
Wow!’ I exclaimed. That’s … totally cool.’
‘Yes, and they’ll be a big tea with scones and cream and cucumber and tuna sandwiches. We’re all looking forward to it, but while the body may be strong, the mind’s not all it could be in Sister Michael’s case, bless her. Last night when we were playing animal snap, she didn’t get
Soz, but Sunday isn’t go to work, the madres in town and wants me all to herself. Next Saturday though promise, xxxx Calypso
I watched the screen of my mobile for what seemed like an eternity, but there was no response, and eventually I had to go off to study period. I told myself that he was obviously wildly busy … either that or furious and planning to dump me.
By Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., when my alarm woke us for our drive up to the tournament in Sheffield, Freds still hadn’t responded to my txts. Yes, tragic as it sounds, I’d sent several txts because each time I told myself he was probably in divs (that’s what they call lessons at Eades) or chapel, or well, just very, very busy loading up his iPod. After my recent phone txt face-off with Freddie before half-term – which turned out to be all Honey’s fault – I wasn’t going to let any sort of misunderstanding between us happen again.
After Freds’ reaction to Honey selling that mobile phone snap to the tabloids, Star has always thought Freddie was overly keen on himself. She’s always telling me I’m too good for him, but then she’s so fiercely loyal she doesn’t think any boy is good enough for me. I hadn’t told Star that I had chucked meeting Freds on Sundayaltogether because I didn’t want him to meet my regressing madre. She would not have been impressed by that, nor, deep down, was, I, but… well, I could hardly have Sarah baby talking to the heir to the throne, could I? In the past three days she’d called me diddums, like, nine times! Diddums? What was I, a cat?
On Saturday morning, Portia and I dressed in our jeans and hoodies in the en suite so as not to wake Honey, who was snoring so loudly, I swear, it’s a miracle she doesn’t ever wake herself up. Then we rushed down the stairs with our torches and out across the damp lawn to the nun’s house, where the tiny little form of Sister Regina was already at the door waiting for us in an overexcited state. She was hopping from one foot to the other.
It had been decided by Sister Constance that one of the nuns should chaperone us to the tournament, and so they’d had a raffle and the lucky winner was Sister Regina. After a lot of nun-ish clucking and cuddling and telling us how all the other nuns were sick with jealously, she led us into the kitchen of the convent, which hadn’t been updated since the fifties.
She’d cooked us a full English breakfast, bless her. Well, you’ll need the nutrition with all that swordplay you’ll be doing. And I’ve packed tuna sandwiches for the journey!’
‘Oh, that’s really sweet, Sister,’ Portia and I told her.
‘Only, don’t say a word to Sister Michael, because it was her tin of tuna I stole.’
‘Sister!’ we chastised.
‘Oh, stop. We each get a little treat in the weekly shop, see, only I always choose cigarettes,’ she explained, dropping her voice to a low whisper.
‘Sister, that’s very, very naughty. Now we’ll feel guilty,’ Portia teased. ‘Poor Sister Michael.’
‘Oh, shush,’ she said, cackling wickedly as she bustled busily about the kitchen, dishing out the eggs, bacon, sausages, toast and baked beans onto the old, chipped green plates. ‘Sister Michael won’t even remember she ordered it. She’s about to reach her century in another month, she is.’
Wow!’ I exclaimed. That’s … totally cool.’
‘Yes, and they’ll be a big tea with scones and cream and cucumber and tuna sandwiches. We’re all looking forward to it, but while the body may be strong, the mind’s not all it could be in Sister Michael’s case, bless her. Last night when we were playing animal snap, she didn’t get
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