The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  Although they hadn’t actually had full-blown sex yet, they’d done plenty of other things. She’d certainly gone further with Clive than she had with any of her other boyfriends. They might have talked the talk, but none of them walked the walk. Not even Craig Black, though she’d let Georgie, Jackie and Julia think otherwise. (Well, they’d guessed ‘it’ had happened, and whilst she didn’t confirm their assumption, she didn’t deny it either.) With Clive though, it was only a matter of time. And Alison was ready. So ready. She sometimes thought she’d been ready since the very first time she’d clapped eyes on Trevor Eve from her secret viewpoint at the top of the stairs in their house in the city. She was almost embarrassed that all these years later, at almost sixteen, she still hadn’t gone the whole way, despite the fact that none of the other girls in her year had either. But she must be the first. She absolutely must.

  For a time, Alison thought Marcus would be the one to take her virginity, but B.W. had ruined that possibility for her. Bitch. She’d never forgive her of course, but maybe she’d inadvertently done her a favour, as losing it to Clive would be better. Way better. He was so much more attractive for a start. In fact, he had a look of Trevor Eve about him. And, obviously, he was experienced: a man of the world. He’d be an amazing lover. Far better to lose it to a man, a proper man, than a boy. She couldn’t be bothered with boys anymore. When she thought about it, she never really had. Older men had always been her thing. They were just so much more . . . interesting. Marcus had been dull; hadn’t she even said that at the time? And though she wasn’t in any way deluded into thinking that Clive would be a long-term catch, he was a hell of a short-term one. He had said he loved her, moaned it really, just the other night, as the car windows steamed up and Marvin Gaye crooned ‘Let’s get it on’ through the stereo system, and she’d muttered it back. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t; maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. But she doubted it. She didn’t really get love as a concept, and she suspected Clive felt the same, but ever since she’d caught him giving her ‘that glance’ as he’d asked her to deliver a letter to Mr Duncan during a Geography lesson back in March, the game had been on. She knew that day he wanted her, and she decided right there and then that she wanted him back.

  Maybe tonight would be the night, she’d thought that afternoon, as she chose her outfit for the disco: her new white Bananarama-style dungarees, or her black Madonna ‘Holiday’ ensemble? She knew she looked sexier in the dungarees, and besides, there’d be loads of Madonna copycats there; rubbish ones, granted, but all the same, if ever there was a night she needed to make an impression, it was tonight. This afternoon in his store room, Clive had told Alison to meet him there at 9.15 p.m. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ he’d said, stroking her cheek, ‘and if you’re a good girl, I might just have a surprise for you.’ She was suddenly looking forward to the disco after all.

  As she carefully and skilfully applied her make-up, Alison decided to forgive Clive for the shopping trip, which gave her the headspace to think about his other revelation: B.W. and Miss Jordan, shopping together for bras. She had been so consumed by rage and jealousy towards Clive’s pathetic wife, that she really hadn’t given this incredibly juicy piece of gossip any proper consideration. Part of her did think that Clive had somehow been mistaken, in the same way she thought her mother was mistaken too. The notion was frankly too absurd.

  Well, now she knew for sure that it was true, absurd or not, she’d absolutely have to do something about it. And though she would never, ever admit it, a tiny part of her was jealous. Not because she fancied Miss Jordan, or had a thing about girls. Not in the slightest. But she couldn’t stomach the glaringly obvious fact that Miss Jordan and Biddy Weirdo had some form of – oh, she didn’t know quite what – connection? They did things together. They’d been spotted by her own mother in a café. They’d been caught buying underwear together by her boyfriend. She’d seen Miss Jordan touching B.W. in a sort of comfortable, intimate way with her very own eyes; the kind of comfortable intimate way in which she longed to be touched herself by Clive, or her mother, or father, or, well, anyone really. Not that she’d ever admit it. And she’d heard Miss Jordan, with her very own ears, tell Biddy that she had a present for her, a hairclip, and that she’d give it to her next time she was in her house, to bake. Miss Jordan had the fucking weirdo in her own home, and baked with her, and gave her presents. Clive wouldn’t even be seen in public with Alison, never mind invite her to his house. And, so far, he hadn’t bought her so much as a can of Coke. She knew he was embarrassed by their relationship, ashamed of it even. She knew he was. Not that she’d ever admit it.

  As she made her way through the throng in the assembly hall, looking for the girls, she spotted Miss Jordan and B.W. on the dance floor. They were dancing. Together. Rage swept through her like a tornado. Bloody fucking Weirdo and Miss pretendy-goody-two-shoes-sweet-and-not-so-fucking-innocent Jordan were dancing, together, at the school fucking disco. Until that second she had been directing some of her anger at Clive. But now she realised it wasn’t his fault at all. Not even remotely. He was as much a victim of their illicit love as she was. He was married, even though he didn’t want to be. He was a teacher. He held a position of responsibility, for God’s sake. He had to be careful. He had to be secretive. Of course he had to. He had no choice. But here were B.W. and Penny Jordan flaunting themselves in front of her fucking face. Well, she’d be fucked if a dyke teacher and the bane of her life school weirdo were going to have something she couldn’t.

  By the time she’d rounded up her gang from around the dance floor, Alison’s plan was fully formed. It was a brilliant plan. Her best yet. Tonight was going to be even better than she’d hoped. Tonight she was finally going to get her own back on that bitch for screwing up her chance with Marcus Baxter, and for daring to be so blatantly close to a teacher, and for, well, for simply existing. She caught Clive looking at her as she strode along the back of the assembly hall, and held his gaze for a few seconds, slowly moving her tongue over her lips, both of them locked in a sheath of light from the disco. He looked gorgeous tonight. Even more like Trevor Eve than usual. Yes, she thought, tonight will be a brilliant night. My night.

  She glanced at her watch but it was too dark in the hall to see the time properly. She looked up at the clock, illuminated by the disco lights. Ten to nine. Their rendezvous was at a quarter past nine. She’d have to work fast.

  16.

  As Biddy and Penny entered the disco, Steve Bailey, a former pupil who was trying to make it as a DJ, was crooning into his mike in a mid-Atlantic accent.

  ‘OK, groovy guys and gorgeous girls, this is for all you beautiful wallflowers out there. It was a big hit a couple of years back for Kajagoogoo. They sure aren’t the same now without the wonderful Limahl at the helm, but I hope you won’t be “too shy-ai” tonight to get up on the dance floor.’

  Biddy didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. She’d never heard of Kajawhatever, and she’d no idea who or what Limahl was. But as she listened to them sing about a girl who was tongue-tied and short of breath and very, very shy, she thought the DJ was playing this song just for her.

  Biddy looked at Miss Jordan and smiled, shyly. The music made her want to move, but she didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Oh, I love this one, don’t you?’ the teacher shouted in Biddy’s ear. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’

  And before Biddy knew what was happening, Miss Jordan had dragged her into the middle of the floor and was making all kinds of odd moves. As Biddy looked nervously around, she realised that everyone else was dancing the same way. For a second she panicked, her terror that she wouldn’t be able to dance like all the normal people in the assembly hall quickly replaced by a gut-wrenching worry that she might get into trouble for trying to do it beside a teacher. Or worse, that Miss Jordan might get in trouble for trying to help her. She glanced anxiously around again, biting into her lip, and spotted Mrs Hobart dancing with the head girl and boy. And there was Mr Boyd
dancing with a group of girls she recognised from her year. OK, she thought, her breathing easing, we won’t get in trouble. Miss Jordan was still doing her funny dance, so Biddy tried her best to copy her, knowing how stupid she must look.

  In actual fact, she didn’t look any more ridiculous than anyone else, and as she danced, the music began to seep into her bones. She closed her eyes and felt like she was flying.

  Biddy had never heard music like this before. They didn’t have a record player in the house and her father only ever listened to Radio Four, so the only kind of music Biddy was familiar with was classical or Big Band Swing. She liked it well enough, but it didn’t make her feel like this.

  As Kajagoogoo faded out, Wham!’s ‘Wake me up Before You Go-Go’ blasted in, and the dance floor was suddenly packed. Biddy felt herself being pushed further into the middle of the throng, but a momentary flash of panic turned to relief when she realised that Miss Jordan, who was also being shoved, seemed oblivious to the crowd and continued dancing. Biddy threw her head back and lost herself in the music. Next came Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’. Miss Jordan cupped her hands and shouted in Biddy’s ear, ‘I love Madonna, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Biddy shouted back, nodding furiously, ‘I love her too.’

  She’d heard of Madonna. She knew what she looked like and she knew she was a singer. And she’d heard of Wham! too. She’d caught snippets of arguments between girls in the classroom, or the canteen, or the library, debating which one was cuter: George, or Andrew. But she’d never actually heard any of their songs. And now she had, she loved them all. She loved Kaja-whatever, and she loved Wham!, and she definitely loved Madonna. She grinned at Miss Jordan, and actually laughed out loud. I can be normal, she thought, as she moved her body to the music with increasing ease. I can. I can do normal things like drink Coke, and buy jeans, and wear a bra and dance. I can have fun. This is fun, and I like it. Maybe I’m not a complete weirdo after all.

  Penny Jordan laughed too. She was thrilled to see Biddy relaxed and enjoying herself, and she wasn’t a bad wee mover too. The girl actually had some natural rhythm; who’d have thought it? Now all she needed were some friends. That would be her next mission. Perhaps she’d invite someone else along to the baking session in a couple of weeks. Maybe Karen Robinson? She seemed like a nice girl, and didn’t appear to be part of Alison’s entourage. She’d witnessed her helping Biddy up from the floor last week after Alison had ‘accidentally’ bumped into her whilst going for a goal shoot. But maybe she was moving too quickly?

  Penny was lost in her happy thoughts, and Biddy was lost in the music. Neither of them noticed that Julia and Jackie were suddenly dancing beside them. And they didn’t see Alison join them a few moments later. And they were totally unaware of all the winking and thumbs-up signs and nudging that was going on between the girls.

  ‘That Madonna sure is one hot chick,’ crooned Steve as ‘Material Girl’ faded out. ‘Talkin’ about hot things, let’s turn the temperature up a little bit with some lurve tunes for all you cool young couples out there to smooch to.’

  At the back of the room, some of the teachers shuffled uncomfortably as the DJ spouted on in his cringing pseudo-American accent. This was a school disco – not an 18–30’s Club Med outing. Penny, realising that she really shouldn’t be on the dance floor when the slow songs came on, tried to signal to Biddy that she was going to sit down, but Biddy couldn’t make her out. Penny took her elbow, drawing her closer.

  ‘I’m whacked,’ she said into her ear. ‘I need a rest. And I’d better go and chat to some of the other teachers. Why don’t you go and get yourself a Coke and a packet of crisps or something at the tuck shop? I’ll see you later, OK?’ She grinned at Biddy, giving her the thumbs-up sign.

  Biddy nodded and dropped her head, reality crashing in. She completely understood that Miss Jordan couldn’t spend the whole evening with her, but for the last ten minutes or so she’d been in a place that felt like heaven, and she didn’t want to leave. What was she supposed to do now? There wasn’t anyone else here she could talk to. Maybe she should just go home. As Miss Jordan turned to go, Biddy saw that someone was blocking her way. It was Jackie McKelvey. Instinctively Biddy turned around and saw Alison standing behind her. Even in the semi-darkness she could make out the twisted smile on her face. Biddy recognised that smile, that look, and she knew that something bad was coming.

  ‘And to start off the sloooww session, it’s Mister Peabo Bryson and Ms Roberta Flack with their big hit from back in 1982. And we have a very special request for two groovy young sweethearts out there in the crowd: Penny Jordan and B.W. who are joining with Peabo and Roberta in celebratin’ their luurve tonight. Well, P.J. and B.W., get smoochin’ and have a luurvelee night.’

  Penny froze. ‘Shit!’ she whispered.

  Biddy’s head began to spin and the sickness started to stir. She must have misheard the DJ. She thought he’d said something about her and Miss Jordan. But he couldn’t have. Could he?

  Over by the door, Georgina took her cue and switched on all the lights. Biddy looked around, panic rising in her chest. The music was still playing, but everyone was pointing and whispering and sniggering in her direction. What was happening? What had Alison done? She looked at Miss Jordan, tears welling up in her eyes, unable to read the expression on the teacher’s face.

  Peabo and Roberta sang on. But nobody was dancing. Everybody, every single person in the room, was looking at Miss Jordan and Biddy Weir standing facing each other in the middle of the hall. Alison smiled at Georgina as she joined her, Julia and Jackie on the edge of the circle that had somehow formed around the teacher and the pupil.

  ‘Knew she was a lezzie, but didn’t realise she was into little girls,’ Alison whispered to Jane Stewart, a sixth-form prefect who was standing, shocked, beside her. Jane gasped, her hand shooting up to her mouth, and stared at Alison in horror. Then she turned and relayed the astonishing truth to her own group of friends. Georgina, Julia and Jackie all whispered the same juicy snippet of gossip to someone standing beside or behind them, and within seconds the whole hall was gasping and murmuring.

  ‘Give her a kiss then, Miss,’ a boy bellowed from the crowd.

  ‘Hey, Miss, do you fancy me too?’ screeched a girl, to wails of laughter from her friends.

  ‘Well, well, well. Turns out our resident weirdo is also a raving dyke,’ laughed Alison.

  Penny closed her eyes and lowered her head. She wanted to move, to get both herself and Biddy out of the hall, but for some reason she felt glued to the spot. Sam’s words of warning rang in her ears.

  Biddy started to shake. She had no idea what was going on, no idea what Alison was talking about, but she knew it wasn’t good. In fact, it was definitely worse than not good. And this time it wasn’t just aimed at her, but also at Miss Jordan. Lovely, kind, thoughtful Miss Jordan. And it was all her fault. She wanted to lie down on the floor and curl up in a ball with her hands over her head. She wanted to die.

  ‘Did you two have a nice time together in the staff loo earlier?’ Alison shouted, just as Mr Duncan arrived to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Oh, and is anyone else invited to the baking party in your house, Miss Jordan? Or is it private – just for Biddy?’

  More gasps ricocheted around the room. Penny looked at Mr Duncan and shook her head. Biddy crossed her arms over the top of her head and started to moan a low, deep groan.

  Alison glanced at the clock. Ten past nine. She saw Clive hover by the door and held his gaze, tossing her head slightly. He smiled at her and pushed through the double doors. She knew her work here was over. The damage was done. Whatever happened next was out of her hands, but she’d a feeling it would be good. Well, good for her, anyway.

  ‘I’m going outside for some air,’ she whispered to Georgina. Georgina winked at her friend. She was the only person who knew about Alison and Mr Patterson and Alison knew she wouldn’t jeopardise the privileged position she was in by blabbing about it to anyo
ne else.

  ‘Make up something if you need to,’ Alison whispered. ‘I’ll be back before ten.’

  And off she went through one set of doors to Clive Patterson’s store room in classroom 10, while Mr Duncan ushered a shaking Biddy Weir and an ashen-faced Penny Jordan through the other.

  17.

  14 June 1985

  Dearest Biddy,

  I really don’t know how to begin to say sorry to you for everything that has happened. Firstly, you must know that it was never my intention to cause you any kind of harm or pain or distress. The fact that you have suffered such hurt and humiliation because of my actions breaks my heart. I only ever wanted to help you. I truly wanted to be your friend. You must believe that, not just for my sake, but for your own. I like you for who you are, Biddy. And if I like you, if I wanted to be your friend, others will too.

  Secondly, as I have told you before, you are absolutely not a weirdo. You are unique and special. You are a talented artist, and a caring person. The people who taunt and bully you are weak and shallow and cruel. For some reason they feel threatened by you, or are jealous of you. They see you as an easy target because you do not fit their profile of ‘normality’, and also because you have absolutely no desire to be one of them. But you are worth a hundred of them, Biddy – a thousand even.

  And so what if you are different to them? Being different is not a bad thing. I am different, too, Biddy. I am gay. I share my life with another woman, a woman called Samantha, who I love very much indeed. She is wise and strong and funny and kind – and she is very feisty too! Being with her gives me the courage to be who I really am. You would like her, Biddy, and I can tell you, she would make mincemeat of Ms Flemming and her cronies!

  Contrary to what a lot of people still think in this day and age, being gay does not make me a bad person. I am not evil, I am not immoral, and I am certainly not a weirdo either.