The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  A rumble of agreement echoed around the table.

  Biddy sat down and stared at her soup. Alison had called her Biddy. Twice. What was going on? What was she up to? She never called her Biddy unless a teacher was around, and right now they were all out of earshot. Biddy looked up. Alison smiled directly at her and carried on eating her soup. It looked like a normal smile. There was certainly no trace of malevolence, no hint of danger in it. Come to think of it, nothing bad had happened since the disco. For the first three weeks of term, Alison had left her alone. Maybe she’d, what – had enough? Maybe she felt nothing could ever top what she’d achieved at the disco, so she’d decided to stop? Biddy stared down at the soup bowl again. The soup looked nice. It was homemade, a bit like her father’s. Not that gloopy stuff from a tin. Maybe she could try to eat some. After all, she wouldn’t have to chew it. She could just swallow. That would be easier. Besides, she’d probably get into trouble if she didn’t eat anything.

  ‘Salt or pepper, Biddy?’ Alison asked, smiling again. Biddy shook her head. She’d said it again, her real name, not her other name. Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be so awful after all. ‘No thank you very much,’ she managed to squeak. She stirred her spoon around her dish a few times, then finally brought it up to her mouth and slurped.

  ‘Oh my God, what the hell are you doing?’ Alison screamed, as Biddy spat the soup out of her mouth, spraying it across the table. Biddy started to choke, gag and sneeze at the same time. She reached out for the water jug, but no one poured her a glass. Panicked, she jumped up, knocking the table heavily with her knees which caused her own bowl and three others to spill their contents over the red and white checked plastic tablecloth. Soup ran everywhere, dripping onto chairs and splashing the floor. Julia, Nicola and Jill stood on their chairs, for fear of getting covered. Jackie and Georgina stood back from the table. As the soup was not running in her direction, Alison sat where she was, calmly surveying the scene of glorious chaos.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ shouted Mrs Abbott, as she ran across the room to see what had caused the commotion. Biddy stood slightly hunched, her hands covering her mouth. Little bits of carrot, leek and barley clung to her stripy T-shirt. Drips of soup trickled down her chin. She was wailing, gasping, sneezing and shaking.

  ‘Biddy, calm down. Calm down, Biddy. Please calm down.’ Mrs Abbott took Biddy by the shoulders and shook her gently. But Biddy continued to gulp, the most extraordinary noise coming from her throat.

  ‘She sounds like a donkey with constipation,’ Alison murmured to Georgina and Jackie who started to snigger. Mrs Abbott flashed them a look.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, would someone pour her a glass of water? Can’t you see she’s choking?’

  Julia went for the water jug but Alison snatched it from her, poured a glass and handed it to Mrs Abbott.

  ‘Here you are, Mrs Abbott. Is she all right?’ she asked with mock concern.

  Biddy gulped down the glass of water and started to cry, big, heavy, throaty sobs.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ asked Mrs Abbott, giving Biddy a handful of paper napkins. No one spoke. Biddy blew her nose loudly in between the sobs and snorts. Most of the girls were feeling uncomfortable by now. How could a bit of white pepper have caused that reaction? Should they tell or not? One or two exchanged worried glances, wondering what to do. But Alison was loving it.

  ‘Alison?’ asked Mrs Abbott, hoping for a reasonable explanation.

  ‘Don’t know, Mrs Abbott,’ Alison held out her hands, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘One second, she was slurping her soup, the next she was spitting and screaming. Perhaps she doesn’t like it. I thought it was quite nice.’

  Georgina had to suppress more giggles. She sat down at a seat which had become vacant at the table behind theirs and crossed her legs in a double twist, worried that she might wet herself. By this stage Mr Boyd and Mr Patterson had joined Mrs Abbott and many of the other pupils had gathered around the table for a closer look.

  ‘Is that vomit?’ asked Laurence Moore.

  ‘The soup’s not that bloody bad,’ muttered someone else.

  ‘All right, all right, settle everyone,’ shouted Mr Patterson over the din. ‘Ruth, get her out of here before she hyperventilates. Roy, you’d better tell them in the kitchen that we need this mess cleared up. You lot, sit down.’

  Mrs Abbott ushered Biddy, who was still sobbing and shaking, out of the room and into the ladies’ toilet on the ground floor.

  Alison smiled at Georgina. ‘Told you I’d get rid of her,’ she whispered.

  ‘I can tell you this, I’m not friggin’ being her partner tomorrow,’ mumbled Rory, as he went back to his seat. ‘Weirdo.’

  21.

  Biddy was initially relieved when Mrs Abbott came into the dorm to say it was lights-out time. She had been lying in her bunk, submerged under the quilt, since seven o’clock. Mrs Abbott had been nice enough as she’d helped to clean her up immediately after the soup incident. At least she had actually touched her, which didn’t happen very often, and she genuinely seemed concerned.

  ‘What happened, Biddy?’ she asked, as she guided Biddy to the sink. Biddy shook her head. She was still gasping and shaking.

  ‘Biddy, I really need to know what happened.’

  ‘Hot,’ was all that Biddy could manage.

  ‘Hot?’ the teacher asked, confused.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Biddy nodded.

  ‘But Biddy, the soup wasn’t hot, it really wasn’t. If anything, I thought it was too cold. Here,’ she ran a hand towel under the taps, ‘take this, and splash your face with water.’

  The water eased the burning sensation in her eyes and up her nostrils, and her breathing began to settle.

  ‘Maybe you put too much pepper in it?’ asked Mrs Abbott, taking the towel back and rubbing Biddy’s top with it.

  ‘No,’ Biddy shook her head. ‘I don’t like pepper. I don’t use it.’

  ‘Well, maybe you added pepper instead of salt? By mistake?’

  Biddy shook her head. ‘I didn’t add anything.’

  Mrs Abbott sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Well, look, whatever it was, you’re OK now, right?’

  Biddy nodded, but she didn’t feel OK at all. She felt sick. Her head hurt and her mouth was sore and she wanted to go home. But she nodded anyway.

  ‘Look, why don’t you go upstairs and clean up properly. Take this with you,’ Mrs Abbott handed her the towel. ‘Change your top and rinse this one through in the bathroom sink. It will dry overnight on the radiator in your dorm. When you’re done, you can come back into the dining room and finish your dinner. I’ll get the girls in the kitchen to keep it in the oven.’

  ‘No thank you, Miss,’ Biddy managed. ‘I’m really not hungry now. If it’s all right with you I’d like to lie down?’

  ‘Well, OK then,’ Mrs Abbott sighed, ‘I’ll come and see you in a while, and if you want I’ll get you some toast or something later. All right?’

  Biddy nodded and managed a half smile. ‘Thank you, Mrs Abbott. And I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry for, Biddy,’ the teacher smiled back. ‘Just so long as you’re OK. Now, I’m away back in to get my own dinner.’

  When Mrs Abbott had gone, Biddy went upstairs to the girls’ shower room where she sat in a toilet cubicle sticking pins into her thighs and the soles of her feet until she felt calm again. She rinsed out the T-shirt as instructed by Mrs Abbott and placed it over one of the long, low radiators in the dorm. Then she pulled on her spare off-white Aertex top and sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, her body juddering every now and then.

  ‘EEEHAWWWW. EEEHAWWW. Snort. Snort. EEEHAWWW.’ Some of the girls burst into the dormitory, laughing hysterically at Alison’s donkey impersonations.

  ‘Alison, you’re so naughty,’ laughed Julia.

  ‘How do you always get away with it, Alison?’ asked Karen Robinson, who was sometimes irritated by Alison
’s attitude, and annoyed with the attention she attracted, but never did anything about it. When she’d heard that Alison was responsible for Biddy’s outburst at dinner, she didn’t find it quite as amusing as the others. She felt a shiver of pity for Biddy, just as she had after the disco, and thought that Alison was cutting too close to the bone.

  ‘Don’t you worry that someday you’ll go too far and really damage her, or even that you’ll get caught out?’ she asked.

  Alison wasn’t used to being challenged. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Karen,’ she snapped and glared at her for a few seconds, then looked over with disdain at Biddy, who was still sitting on the edge of her bed, head bent, hands folded on her lap. She sniffed a laugh, went over to her own bunk, rustled in her rucksack and took out a black portable tape recorder and a cassette of A-Ha’s new album, Hunting High and Low. ‘Come on, girls, let’s bring this outside. If we go behind the greenhouse we might even be able to sneak a fag. Have you got the packet, Georgie?’

  Georgina nodded. She skipped over to her own rucksack and removed a packet of Silk Cut, which was wrapped up in a face cloth inside her toilet bag, and slipped it inside the pocket of her Levi sweatshirt.

  Alison headed towards the door. ‘Coming, Karen?’ She waved the tape in the air. ‘Or are you going to stay here and keep the Weirdo company?’

  Karen hesitated. Alison did piss her off, but there was no way she was staying on her own here with Biddy. Yes, she felt a bit sorry for her, but not that much. Besides, she loved that album, and also, the chance of a sneaky smoke was too good to miss. Everyone followed Alison out of the room, Georgina letting the door slam behind her. Seconds later, Biddy heard it creak open again. It was Alison.

  ‘If you even think about telling Abbott that we’ve gone for a smoke, it’ll be more than soup you’ll be spitting out next time. Got it?’ Biddy quivered, but made no response to Alison’s threat. ‘I said, got it?’

  This time Biddy nodded, keeping her head bent so far that her chin rested on her bony chest. As the door slammed again, the tears began to run down her face and drip from her nose onto her T-shirt. She knew that Alison had been responsible for whatever had happened in the dining room. Her stomach turned and churned and the thought of the next two days living here in this house made her shake with fear. What would Alison do next? How would she manage to get through tonight, never mind the rest of the trip? Would Mrs Abbott send her home if she asked? But how would she get home? Her father couldn’t come to collect her, as he didn’t drive. And there was no one else. No one. Maybe if Miss Jordan wasn’t away travelling the world, she could have come to get her. Or maybe if she’d had a mother, she would be able to drive, and she would have come for her. She might have allowed her not to go in the first place. She might have hugged her close and stroked her hair and said, ‘There, there. Of course you don’t have to go, of course you can stay with me.’ But she didn’t have a mother, did she? And she hadn’t even had the guts to ask her father if she could stay at home anyway. It wasn’t his fault. It was her fault: her own stupid fault.

  The thought of her father caused a rapid, throbbing stab of homesickness. She wanted to be near him and smell his musty, coal-tar scent. She wanted his dry, wrinkly hands to give her a handkerchief to wipe away her tears. She wanted her own old creaky bed with its stripy cotton sheets and layers of thin, bally blankets and piles and piles of sketches stuffed underneath it. The dormitory door opened again making Biddy jump, and squeeze her eyes shut.

  ‘How are you feeling now, Biddy?’

  She sighed with relief. It was Mrs Abbott’s voice, not Alison’s.

  ‘Biddy?’ Biddy looked up, her face expressionless.

  God, she looks a right sight, thought Ruth Abbott. It was obvious that she’d been crying: her face was pale with big red blotches, her eyes pink and puffy. She wanted to get back to the lounge for a bit of crack with Clive and Roy. They were going to have a game of poker and she was pretty sure she could beat them. But she also knew that it was her responsibility to make sure Biddy was all right. After that dreadful business with Penny Jordan last term, Mr Duncan had asked her to keep an eye on her. ‘She may be a bit vulnerable,’ he had said. Aren’t they bloody all at that age, she had thought. Ruth had never actually taught Biddy Weir, but she knew the girl was a bit, well, odd. Still, she hadn’t expected her to be quite so feeble, or so desperately introverted. Frankly, she’d been disgusted by that whole episode at the disco. She hadn’t been there herself, but naturally she’d heard all about it from several of the teachers who were. But she hadn’t bought it. She’d had some dealings with Penny, and she liked her. So what if she was gay? Her own cousin was gay, and that didn’t make him a pervert. From her contact with Penny, she was certain it was all a ridiculous misunderstanding. And anyway, didn’t Penny have a partner? She had been tempted to speak up, defend the young teacher, but as she was hoping for a promotion to Deputy Head of Department when Margot Russell left next term, she didn’t want to do anything to get on the wrong side of Mr Duncan. So she kept her mouth shut. But seeing Biddy now she wondered if she should have spoken up. The concept of something untoward going on between them was even more ridiculous to her now she had actually had direct contact with the girl. Biddy was so innocent, so childlike. Look at her, she thought: she’s like a little lost waif. She could be from the ’50s; she certainly wasn’t a child of the ’80s. And she didn’t appear to have any friends at all. Maybe she should ask one of the other girls to take her under her wing, just for the next two days. Alison Flemming, perhaps. Alison always seemed eager to please.

  ‘Are you feeling a bit better?’ she asked, softly.

  Biddy nodded. Ruth knew this was a lie, but at least the girl was settled, and right now she was happy to settle for the fib.

  ‘Good. Now, are you hungry yet? Shall I get you a snack?’

  Biddy shook her head.

  ‘You sure? How about some tea and toast?’

  ‘No, thank you very much, Miss,’ Biddy almost whispered. ‘I’m just tired and my tummy’s a bit sore.’

  ‘Well, we’ve all had a busy day. Perhaps you’ve just overdone it a bit. Why don’t you just get your jammies on and get into bed now?’

  Biddy nodded.

  ‘You could read a book or a magazine or something.’

  Biddy nodded again.

  ‘Have you got something with you to read?’

  Biddy nodded again, even though she hadn’t.

  ‘All right then, Biddy. Just you stay here and relax. I’m sure you’ll be feeling better in the morning after a good sleep. I’ll be round again before lights out.’

  Biddy nodded again.

  ‘Bye, then.’

  ‘Bye,’ whispered Biddy, so softly that Ruth Abbott didn’t even hear.

  Biddy lay in bed with the duvet pulled up to her chin and watched silently as the other girls ran around the room, hitting each other with pillows and playing with each other’s hair. Their behaviour fascinated her. It was all so foreign, so surreal: a bit like watching an episode of The Living Planet, only instead of jungles, or deserts, or mountains, or birds, David Attenborough’s subjects were real-life teenage girls. This was very different to the way they behaved at school, thought Biddy. Well, maybe it wasn’t; maybe she just spent so much time at school trying to avoid them, trying not to get in their way or make eye contact, or interact with them on any level, that she simply hadn’t noticed. Now she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  Some of them flicked through magazines, oohing and aahing at the pictures. ‘Simon’s my favourite,’ said Jill. ‘Look, isn’t he gorgeous?’

  ‘Ugh, no way!’ Nicola was apparently horrified. ‘Nick is definitely the cutest. Look at those eyes.’ Biddy wondered who they were talking about: some pop group, obviously. She imagined herself sitting on the bed beside them, looking at the pictures too. Which one would she prefer? Simon, or Nick? If Nick had nice eyes, it would probably be him. Some of the girls sang songs she didn’t recog
nise into their hairbrushes, and danced the kind of dances they’d all been doing at the disco; apart from Vanessa Park who was pirouetting around the room like a ballerina. Julia seemed to be poking at Jackie’s eyebrows with a pair of tweezers. There was so much chatter, so much laughter; but for once it wasn’t intimidating or menacing. Despite what had happened earlier, the high-pitched, musical hum around the room was sort of mesmerising. Something about the tone reminded Biddy of the aviary at the Botanical Gardens in the city.

  She was equally fascinated by the bedtime outfits on display. Some of the girls wore big baggy T-shirts with pictures of Minnie Mouse or the Tweetie Pie bird on them, or big printed slogans like the ones Bryan and Tim had on at the disco. Some wore oversized shirts which looked like they belonged to their fathers, with the collars and cuffs cut off. One or two were dancing in their underwear. Georgina was admiring Alison’s pink pants and matching vest top.

  Biddy tugged at her own tartan flannelette pyjamas which were buttoned the whole way up to her neck and felt mortified. She’d worn the same type of pyjamas for as long as she could remember, and always loved the comfort of them – until now. The room was warm and she felt sticky and uncomfortable underneath the unfamiliar duvet. But she knew she daren’t move, because then the spell would be broken, and another shameful secret would be revealed.

  During her brief but brilliant friendship with Miss Jordan, Biddy had felt the unfamiliar rumblings of a yearning to be normal. It took her by surprise, as she’d never given much thought to being normal before; in truth her focus had always been on managing her weirdness, not letting it bother other people – and, of course, as much as possible, on staying out of Alison’s way. There was never any energy left for thoughts of a normal life. But Miss Jordan had opened her eyes to that possibility, just a little bit. She knew she couldn’t be properly normal, not ever, her weirdness was obviously too inherent for that – but she had started to think that she could maybe, perhaps, do some of the normal things that other girls her age could do: like wear clothes that didn’t come from charity shops, and buy make-up, and dance to pop music, and bake cakes. And she was just beginning to do some of them, she was, when, well, when look what happened. That’ll teach you, she’d told herself over and over, you stupid, bloody weirdo. Tonight, in this huge room in this strange old house, miles and miles away from the safety of Stanley Street, as she pretended to be invisible and silently, secretly watched the maze of little dramas all around her, she felt that rumble once again. I wish, she thought. I wish, I wish, I wish . . .