The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  Samantha knows all about you, Biddy. She was very worried when we became friends, because she thought there was a chance that one or other of us might get hurt. But then she realised how important our friendship was to me, and every day when I got home from work she would ask me how you were. I am telling you all of this because I want you to understand why I was drawn to you. It was absolutely not in any way because I had malicious intent, or liked you in a way that I shouldn’t have, despite what many people are saying. It was partly because I saw in you a sadness that disturbed me, and when I discovered the extent to which being bullied has affected your life, I really wanted to try and help you. I also felt a connection with you, Biddy, because we both grew up without our mothers, and as I have already told you, I know how difficult that is. Perhaps it was wrong, naive and unprofessional of me, but you know what – I liked your company, Biddy Weir. You are a girl of few words, yet I know there is a whole lot more to you than even you can see. I also know there will be a path that will lead you to a happy life, I’m just sorry that I can’t be around anymore to help you find it. But another friend will come along, Biddy, I promise, and when they do, please don’t be afraid to let them in.

  Biddy, I should tell you that Sam and I are going on a very long trip. We’ve always talked about travelling and when I decided to leave the school (which was the best thing to do for all concerned) we realised this was the perfect time to go. Our plan is to work our way across Australia and then maybe go to New Zealand and the Far East. Who knows where we’ll go, and what we’ll do, but we’re very excited. It will be a grand adventure.

  But I won’t forget you, Biddy, and I look forward to the day when we can meet up again. Perhaps you will be a famous artist by then. You certainly have the talent and there is no reason why you will not succeed if you decide that you want to. Always keep that in your heart.

  Well, Biddy, it’s time for me to go and do some more packing. I’m sorry again for what has happened, but I don’t regret our friendship, and I hope you don’t either. I know things are horrible for you at the moment, but time will pass and I know you will get through it. And please, Biddy, if things do become too difficult, and Alison and her gang decide to pull another of their vile stunts – you must go to Mr Duncan and tell him what has happened. He will listen, I promise, and he will help. He is a good man and a fair man – but he cannot help if he doesn’t know what is going on. My hope is that those girls will now back off – but if they don’t, you MUST tell Mr Duncan, or another teacher, or your father.

  Take care of yourself, Biddy, and be strong. As Christopher Robin said to Winnie the Pooh, ‘Promise me you’ll always remember: you’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.’ My Auntie Celia used to recite that to me. It brought me enormous comfort and for a while it became my mantra. I hope it helps you too!

  With much affection, your friend,

  Penny.

  18.

  Biddy folded the letter and slid it back under the neat pile of grey school knickers in the top drawer of her dresser. There was no chance of her father finding it there, as he would never venture into her underwear drawer. As far as she knew, he never actually came into her room at all, but just in case, she’d needed a good hiding place. She kept her little round box of pins and needles inside a pair of old socks at the back of the drawer, and he’d never found that, so she reckoned her underwear drawer was a safe haven for secrets, even when she wasn’t there.

  Biddy had read Miss Jordan’s letter every single day for the past three months. Apart from her drawing, it was the one shred of solace she had had since the nightmare of the disco. The summer was normally her favourite time of the year: long days and clear bright nights to spend on the beach drawing. But the memory of what had happened darkened everything around her, and the thought of the impending school trip made her ill with fear. She ate even less than normal, she barely slept, and on the days when she did have the energy to go to the beach, she often found herself fantasising about walking into the sea and not stopping.

  But then she would think of Miss Jordan, and all the things she had said in her letter, and she’d think about her papa and her heart would lurch. She knew she would never leave him.

  The letter arrived one Saturday morning a couple of weeks after the disco. Biddy just happened to be in the hall doing her weekend hoovering when it fell through the letterbox, along with the electricity bill and an official looking letter for her father. The pale blue square envelope with the neat handwriting on the front had her name on it. Biddy shook as she picked it up. She’d never had a letter before. She’d never had anything addressed purely to her in her life. Was this a joke? she thought. A trick? What was Alison up to now? It had to be her – no one else would send her a letter. Well, she wouldn’t read it. She wouldn’t give Alison the pleasure of hurting her again: not this time anyway. She’d put it straight into the bin and never think of it again. But then her papa had shouted from the kitchen, ‘Was that the post, lass?’ and as she heard him make his way towards the hall, she quickly shoved the letter down the back of her trousers.

  As soon as she could, she hid it under her pillow, still determined not to read it, but not quite sure why she had chosen not to put it in the bin. Every so often throughout the day she went into her room, slipped it out from under her pillow and turned it over in her shaking hands. It wasn’t until her clock read 3.10 a.m. that she finally, carefully, tore back the seal and slowly pulled the matching blue paper from the envelope.

  Since that day, the letter had become her most treasured possession, and whilst she didn’t know how she would manage the next few days without it, she also knew, with absolute certainty, that she couldn’t bring it with her. The prospect of Alison Flemming getting her hands on it was just not worth the risk.

  She had woken up that morning feeling sick and exhausted. Her dreams, when she had managed to sleep, were haunted by Alison and the others, her hours of wakeful tossing and turning dominated by thoughts of escape. But she knew there wasn’t one.

  She lifted the socks containing the tin of pins and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the battered old brown suitcase which was lying open on the floor, awaiting the last couple of items she needed to pack for the trip.

  ‘It was my grandfather’s,’ her father had said when he handed it to her a few days earlier. ‘Glad it’s getting an airing again. Don’t think it’s been used since before you were born. Long before,’ he nodded to himself. Biddy caught a brief glimpse of something in his eyes. Sadness? Regret? A wistful memory? She wasn’t sure, but she knew she couldn’t object. ‘Anyways, no point forking out for something new when we’ve a family heirloom that’ll do the job rightly, eh, lass?’

  Biddy nodded. ‘Thank you, Papa. I’ll just go and pack now.’

  Her father had nodded and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Biddy knew that he was standing still outside her door as the wonky landing floorboard hadn’t creaked. She waited, hoping that he would come back into her room, willing him to open the door, wanting him to tell her she didn’t have to go. But then she heard the creak, and the slow, uneven sound of her father going down the stairs.

  Her father had never talked to her about what had happened with Miss Jordan. But he must be curious. Surely he wanted to hear her side of the story? And she had wanted to talk to him about it. She still did. She wanted to tell him all about Miss Jordan and how kind she was and how much she missed having a friend, and how unhappy she was, and how Alison and the others made her want to be dead sometimes. But for some reason, neither of them said a word about it to each other. Three months had passed since the disco and Miss Jordan’s departure. The summer had come and gone, and Biddy still wondered what Mr Duncan had said to her father that awful Monday morning in June.

  She had sat outside the headmaster’s office while her father and Mr Duncan spoke for a few minutes, terrified that something else really bad was about to happen, con
vinced that, after years of ignoring her, Mr Duncan was finally going to punish her for being a bloody weirdo. He had spoken to her kindly before her father arrived, told her that if she was having problems at school, she could talk to him. She would have liked to have said something about how nice Miss Jordan was to her, how kind she was and how she had helped her with clothes and things. She would have liked to have told him about Alison and Georgina and Julia and Jackie, and how much they frightened her and made her feel sick every single day. She had wanted to say that she didn’t fully understand what had happened on Friday night at the disco and to ask him if she could see Miss Jordan. Please. And she had wanted to say she was sorry that she was a bloody weirdo and she really didn’t mean to be one and she didn’t like being one, and she would really like to stop sticking pins into herself, but she didn’t know how. She would have liked to have said all these things, but the lump was there, of course, and it was really, really big that day. So she had said nothing. Nothing at all.

  Biddy didn’t know what had happened inside that office, what was said, but when the two men emerged, her father’s pale face was unusually flushed, his expression strained. A flash of the memory of her father coming into Mrs Martin’s room at Prospect Park made her shudder. Here they were again. Nothing had changed. All these long, agonising years later, Alison was still controlling her life.

  ‘All right, Biddy,’ Mr Duncan had smiled, ‘your father and I have had a chat and we feel it’s best if you take the rest of the day off. I know the misunderstanding at the disco was a bit stressful for you, and you do look a little bit tired, so I think perhaps a day of rest would be a good idea. And we’ll see you back tomorrow morning, fresh as a daisy. OK?’

  Biddy had nodded, wishing she could leave school forever and never come back.

  ‘Let’s go, lass,’ her father had croaked, nodding at Mr Duncan before donning his cap and lifting Biddy’s string bag from the floor. They had walked to the bus stop in silence. They rode the six-stop journey home in silence. They walked from the stop to their house in silence. The only time her father had spoken on the twenty-minute journey home was to ask Mrs Henderson at the corner shop for a packet of Kimberley biscuits and a sherbet dip.

  Biddy placed an art pad, a couple of pencils and a battered packet of broken charcoal sticks on top of the small pile of neatly folded items she had packed for the field trip, then tucked the socks into the bottom corner of the case. At least she could smuggle a needle into a toilet cubicle without anyone seeing. All that was left to pack now was the blue nylon dressing gown she was wearing, and her toothbrush.

  ‘Biddy!’ her father called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Porridge is on the table.’

  Biddy smoothed out the blankets on her bed and went downstairs to sit staring at the porridge she knew she couldn’t eat.

  19.

  The letter had said they had to be at the school by 8.30 a.m. The bus was leaving at 8.45 sharp. Anyone who wasn’t there would be left behind. Biddy wanted to be left behind. She had spent the summer in a haze of distress because of the disco, and a fog of dread at the prospect of September, the fifth year and the field trip. Normally it took place in the Spring term of the fourth year, but a week before they were due to go last April, a big strike which involved some of the teachers at the school meant the trip had to be cancelled at the last minute. Biddy had never been more relieved about anything in her life. It was the first time ever that one of her deepest, most important wishes had come true. But her relief and happiness were short-lived. Two days later, they were told that the trip had been rescheduled and would take place in the third week of September, well before revision for their Mock O Levels would start. It was like someone had given her the best present ever and then taken it away. And that was then, before the whole disco thing; before Miss Jordan left. It would be even worse now. So much worse. She just knew it. Just before she left the house, Biddy went to the toilet and threw up the little bit of porridge she had managed to eat at breakfast.

  When she arrived at school in the taxi her father had booked the night before, Biddy was the only pupil without a parent to see her off. Her father had offered to come with her, to help carry her case. But she’d said it was OK. He didn’t need to. Really, she reassured him, she’d manage. Besides, it wasn’t at all heavy, as she didn’t have a lot to pack. They were only going for three nights and she reckoned one change of clothes, her pyjamas, fresh underwear for each day and her Pac A Mac were all she needed, as well as a bar of soap, her toothbrush and toothpaste, a towel and a flannel. And of course, her sketchbook, pencils and her tin of needles. She thought that would be enough. Essentials, the letter had said, were T-shirts, trousers, a sweatshirt, a waterproof coat, trainers, thick socks and a strong pair of walking shoes. No skirts or high heels for the girls and no button-down shirts for the boys. Biddy didn’t know what a strong pair of walking shoes really meant, so she wore her Wellington boots and packed her P.E. plimsolls in the case. She also wore the jeans and stripy top she’d bought the day she went shopping with Miss Jordan, and tied her baggy navy blue cardigan, which now had three missing buttons, around her waist.

  Before she got into the taxi, Biddy’s father hugged her. It was an awkward hug, not quite drawing her properly into him, almost not even touching her. But it was definitely a hug. She lifted her right arm behind his back and lightly touched his brown cardigan. He smelt of coal tar soap and fusty mothballs. She would have liked to have had a tighter hug, and to hug him tighter. She would have liked him to wish her luck or tell her to take care. But the half-hug was so much better than no hug at all and, in a way, said more than a few words ever could.

  But Biddy had absolutely no idea just how worried her father was about her, and how much he really did not want her to go on this field trip either. If she’d given him any indication that she didn’t want to go herself, he might have let her stay. But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t known how to ask. And anyway, she had to go. Rules were rules. And that was that. But as Mr Weir watched the taxi – a brown Cortina, which had clearly seen better days – turn right at the bottom of their road, he felt unsteady. He went back into the house, straight up the stairs into her room and pulled the sketches out from under her bed. By the time he came back down to put the kettle on, nearly two hours had passed.

  ‘Going on a school trip then, love?’ the taxi driver asked. ‘Where are you off to then, somewhere nice?’ he tried again, having had no response to his first question. This time, she nodded. But she still didn’t answer. ‘I know, bet it’s that place up by Innisbrook Forest. I hear it’s great. Supposed to be haunted though, mind you.’

  Biddy swallowed hard and stared straight ahead. Shut up, shut up, shut up, she screamed inside her head. But the taxi driver kept on talking. ‘My grandson goes to your school. Frank Simpson. Second year.’ Biddy still said nothing. She knew she was being rude. People didn’t often engage with her in such a friendly way, and she should have responded to his kindness. But she couldn’t. Not today.

  ‘Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know him. You being a big girl, and all.’ He shrugged and, to Biddy’s relief, switched the radio on, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music.

  Biddy wasn’t used to cars, and whilst she didn’t want to reach their destination, the journey was adding to her anxiety and she willed it to be over. She’d only been in two cars before: another taxi several years ago when she’d been sent home from school with a vomiting bug, and the time Mrs Thomas had stopped halfway up Westhill Road to offer her father and her a lift. They’d been shopping in town and had missed the 4.15 p.m. bus. As it was Saturday, there wasn’t another one for an hour, and so her father decided they should walk, but ten minutes later they got caught in an almighty downpour.

  ‘No point in turning back now, lass,’ her father had said, pulling up the collar of his old tweed jacket. ‘Best just keep your head down and plough on. We’ll be home soon enough.’

  Biddy had no collar on h
er yellow cardigan, but she put her head down and carried on, a plastic carrier bag in each hand, one filled with bread from The Griddle, the other holding a packet of porridge oats and two packets of Kimberley biscuits. Her father carried the heavier stuff: the milk and the meat from McDaid’s. As the rain ran down the back of her neck, soaking her cardigan and the blue nylon blouse below it, and her feet squelched around inside the Moses sandals she’d got from the Oxfam shop the previous Saturday, Biddy wondered what it would be like to be someone like Alison or Georgina or Jackie or Julia. To have a father who had a job he went to every morning where he earned enough money to buy a car. To have a mother to go shopping with. To not have to carry home bags of meat from the butcher’s in town. To have had a party for your thirteenth birthday. To not be a bloody weirdo. These thoughts were all jumping around inside her head, when Mrs Thomas had pulled up beside them in her car, wound down the window and asked if they wanted a lift. Mrs Thomas often offered them lifts, but her father always politely declined. She was so sure her father would say no that she kept on walking. But then he was calling her back, and getting her into the back seat of the car and getting himself in the front seat and heaving in all the sodden bags of shopping. She was so shocked that he’d said yes that it took her a few minutes to settle. She was sure from the look on Mrs Thomas’s face that she was equally surprised. Biddy wondered if the only reason she actually offered her father lifts in the first place was because she knew he’d say no. As they drove through the rain she pressed her face against the steamed-up window, and began to fantasise that Mrs Thomas was her mother, that this was their family car, and they were all going on a family trip to the city, or the swimming pool, or to visit people they knew. Then suddenly Mrs Thomas stopped outside their house and the most wonderful of daydreams was over.