Lottie Biggs is Not Tragic

by Hayley Long

  My sister, Ruthie, who was sitting in the next room and blatantly earwigging our private conversation, chipped in at that point and shouted through the open doorway, ‘She’s not worth the trouble, Mum. You wouldn’t get any bids.’

  ‘Keep your beak out, Big Bird,’ I shouted back.

  ‘Oh wind your neck in, Beryl,’ said Ruthie.

  This made me go quiet. Beryl is my official middle name but it upsets me to be reminded of this fact.

  My mum looked up at the ceiling and said, ‘Oh for goodness sake! Is it unreasonable to expect you two to like each other?’

  Ruthie appeared in the doorway with a look of horror on her face. ‘Get real – I don’t like her,’ she said. ‘She’s my squid sister.’ And then Ruthie winked at me and said, ‘But I love her to bits. Obviously.’

  ‘Fish-breath,’ I muttered under my breath. I was smiling though. I couldn’t help it.

  ‘Squid,’ said Ruthie.

  ‘Get out of my kitchen, the pair of you,’ said my mum. And as I went hurrying off up the stairs to my room, I heard her say to Ruthie, ‘You’re twenty years old. When are you going to start acting as if you are?’

  And this made me chuckle because I can’t ever imagine Ruthie being all grown-up and boring, which is probably why I love her to bits.

  In contrast, my friend Goose is only fifteen but she’s got her foot to the floor in the fastest car on the motorway to middle-age . . . and I love her to bits too. When we were walking to school together this morning, I asked her how things were at the Ponty-Carlo Picture House.

  ‘Pat Mumble fired me,’ she said.

  ‘Whoops,’ I said. ‘That was probably my fault, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ shrugged Goose. ‘I would’ve left anyway. The lack of daylight was turning me into a vampire and giving me a Vitamin D deficiency . . . and anyway, the situation between me and Tim Overup was totally untenable.’

  Goose is very good with words. At the time, I didn’t know what untenable meant so I just nodded sympathetically. But a little while ago, I looked it up in a dictionary and it said this:

  unte’nable adjective being without a base; incapable of being maintained or defended; groundless; unsound

  . . . which doesn’t leave me a whole lot wiser.

  ‘To be honest, Goose,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think he really seemed your type.’

  Goose shrugged again. ‘That’s why I like him. He’s totally different to anyone I’ve ever been out with. He’s mature and thoughtful, he knows loads about books and films and art, and he totally does his own thing and doesn’t fit into any poxy pointless pigeonholes.’

  I thought about this for a while and, while I was thinking, we walked along in silence. Finally, I said, ‘So does that make him a Type A, Type B or Type C person?’

  Goose laughed. ‘I don’t know. But who honestly cares?’

  And even though I was a bit confused, I smiled back and said, ‘No one, I suppose.’

  We walked along in silence for a bit more and then I said, ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Goose. ‘I’m just gonna live each day as it comes and then when I’m a bit older and a bit more grownup, I’ll see if he’s changed his mind.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘. . . but you might have changed your mind about him by then. Or fallen in love with somebody else. Or moved to Kentucky. Or anything. Life can only be understood backwards but it has to be lived forwards, you know.’

  Goose stopped walking and looked at me, a hint of a grin on her face. ‘True. You’re very wise sometimes, Lottie Biggs. Do you know that?’

  ‘Am I?’ I said, genuinely confused. ‘I don’t think so! If I was wise I wouldn’t have run off to Aberystwyth without telling my mum and I wouldn’t have dragged you along with me as back-up and, if I really was wise, I’d certainly have noticed that you were having an existential crisis in the middle of my sister’s grotty kitchen.’ And then I said, ‘I’m truly sorry. I honestly am.’

  Goose put her head on one side and smiled. Just for a moment, she reminded me of my mum. But then she stuck her tongue out and went boss-eyed and any similarity to my mum instantly vanished. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Just don’t do it again.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘Honestly, Goose, friends like you can’t just be ordered out of a catalogue, can they?’

  This time it was Goose’s turn to look confused. But only for a second. Then a sparkle appeared in each of her eyes and, linking her arm through mine, we continued on our way in the direction of school.

  We hadn’t gone more than a few paces though before the ting-a-ling of a bicycle bell stopped us in our tracks and caused us to spin round. Behind us, weaving dangerously on an ancient black bike, was Tim Overup. Flashing us both an awkward grin, he scraped his shoe along the pavement until he wobbled to an awkward halt. Then he leaned forward awkwardly on to his handlebars, pushed a stray piece of awkward gingery hair away from his eyes, and awkwardly asked, ‘Gail, might I have a quick word?’

  I snuck a glance at Goose. Goose hates being called by her proper name. It can make her turn quite chopsy. To be fair, she didn’t look like she was turning chopsy just then but she had gone very still and very red and her mouth was hanging slightly open. I nudged her and her mouth snapped shut.

  Tim Overup fiddled with his fringe again, gave another nervous smile and said, ‘Er . . . Gail . . . I won’t keep you long. It’s just that . . . um . . . well . . . I’ve been thinking about our last conversation and I can’t help thinking that I’ve been a bit of an idiot . . . I’m really sorry and . . . well . . . I was wondering if there was any chance . . . any chance at all that you’d . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goose, suddenly finding her voice again.

  Tim Overup blinked. And then he smiled. And this time, it wasn’t a small nervous smile – it was a great big happy and relieved one. It actually made him look rather nice.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Tim. ‘I’ve got your phone number. I’ll call you later, shall I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goose, who now had a great big happy smile on her face too.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Tim, again. ‘That’s really fantastic.’ And then he put his hand into the pocket of his jumbo cords and pulled out a crumpled page of newspaper. ‘I . . . er . . . don’t know if you’re interested but . . .’

  ‘I am,’ interrupted Goose.

  Tim did a funny little laugh. And this time, it sounded less like the funny harrumphing giraffe-laugh that I’d heard him do on the bus that other time and much more like a very sweet happy hiccup. He handed her the page from the newspaper and said, ‘There’s a film on at Movie World called Love, Lies and Secrets. This review in The Western Mail described it as the romance of the year. We could go and see it together if you like?’

  Goose smiled so widely that it looked like her face was splitting in half. ‘I would DEFINITELY like,’ she said.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Tim for the billionth time. ‘I’ll call you later then, Gail.’ And then he made that sweet little happy hiccup noise, climbed back on to his ancient saddle and pedalled off towards the sixth-form centre. For a moment, Goose stood rooted to the spot with a weird faraway look on her face and watched him disappear down the road. Then she said, ‘Am I dreaming?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Goose. ‘Fan-flipping-tastic.’ And with that weird faraway look still firmly plastered all over her face, she said, ‘He calls me Gail. How utterly romantic is that?’

  ‘Is it?’ I said. ‘I thought you hated being called Gail.’

  ‘Not by him I don’t,’ said Goose, and then she threaded her arm back through mine and we finished the final half-mile to school propelled through the air on a whirlwind of love and optimism.

  . . . aND haPPY eNDINGs

  When we reached the upper school teaching block, I said bye to Goose and we went our separate ways. She headed off to her form room and I headed off to the tuck shop wher
e I guessed I’d find Gareth somewhere close to the front of the queue. Sure enough, he was being served just as I arrived. I stood to one side of the queue and waited as he took his change and a steaming hot dog from Mr Doughnut. Inside my pockets, the fingers on both my hands were crossed. I’m not sure why. I don’t think that crossing your fingers actually achieves anything.

  Gareth turned away from the serving hatch and raised his hot dog to his mouth. And then, seeing me, he stopped. My fingers crossed even tighter and my mouth went a bit dry.

  Gareth nodded. ‘All right, Biggsy?’

  ‘All right, Gaz?’ I said.

  Gareth nodded again. ‘So you came back then?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ said Gareth. ‘I’m glad about that.’ And then he gave me a small awkward smile and turned away and began to walk towards our form room.

  I panicked. ‘Gareth,’ I shouted. ‘Don’t go!’ Several people who were waiting in the queue for the tuck shop looked over at us. Gareth paused and turned back to look at me. His face had gone very red. I think mine had too because I suddenly felt abnormally sweaty.

  ‘Gareth,’ I said, quieter. ‘I want to say sorry.’

  Gareth kicked at the ground with his foot. ‘It’s OK. Doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not OK and it does matter. If I hadn’t been such a one-way talker, you’d be playing for the Wales youth team by now.’

  Gareth looked at his uneaten hot dog. ‘Coach Jenkins says I might get another chance.’

  ‘I’ve bought you something,’ I said. ‘It was meant to be a Christmas present really but I think you should have it now.’ I unzipped my coat and pulled out a stripy red carrier bag that I’d been carrying under my jumper.

  Gareth looked at the bag and bit his lip. ‘Oh, I dunno—’

  ‘Please, Gaz,’ I said. ‘Take it.’

  Gareth hesitated. Then he put his hot dog into my hand, took the bag from me and pulled out the T-shirt that was inside it.

  A small hint of a smile played on his lips.

  ‘The thing is, Gaz . . .’ I said, suddenly speaking really quickly and really nervously, ‘. . . the thing is . . . if we’re going to carry on going out with each other, I think there have to be certain rules . . . and the first rule is that you’ve got to take your rugby career seriously and not go running off to Aberystwyth with me at the drop of a hat. You’ve got to be focused . . .You mustn’t let women . . . and that includes me . . . get in the way of your passion for the game. Because rugby is not a pastime, Gareth, it’s a way of life.’

  Gareth nodded slowly. The hint of a smile was still on his lips. ‘OK, Coach,’ he said.

  Still clutching Gareth’s hot dog, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t finished yet. ‘And also,’ I said, ‘I was wondering if you’re still going to the end-of-term disco tonight . . . because if you are . . . and if you don’t mind . . . I’d really like to go with you.’

  Gareth frowned. I felt my heart sink. He began kicking at the ground again and said, ‘Oh I dunno, Lottie. To be honest, I’m thinking I might go night-fishing with my mate, Spud, instead. I’ve been spending too much time around girls recently. It’s given me a seriously bad attack of the Frillies.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘OK then.’ I could hardly speak. My jaw had locked and my heart had stopped. I guess that this is what it feels like to be dumped by someone you really really like.

  Gareth scratched his chin as if he was turning over something in his mind. Finally, he said, ‘But seeing as it’s you who’s asking, I think I’ll give the night-fishing a miss.’

  I stared at him. ‘You’re not dumping me?’

  Gareth said, ‘Don’t be daft!’ And then he took his hot dog out of my hands and ate it.

  I did a funny little laugh. I couldn’t stop myself. It was like a sudden unstoppable happy hiccup. We began walking together towards our form room. I took a deep breath. I still wasn’t finished yet. ‘Gaz,’ I said, ‘can I ask you something?’

  Gareth looked at me warily. ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘. . . you know when we were in Ruthie’s kitchen the other day . . .’

  ‘Ain’t likely to forget,’ interrupted Gareth. ‘Worst party ever!’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘. . . you were explaining about why you came with me to Aberystwyth and you used this small word beginning with L . . .’

  Gareth butted in. ‘Leeks?’

  ‘No, not leeks . . .’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘No, you said . . .’

  Gareth continued to interrupt me. ‘Lollipop? Lard? Lobster?’

  I stopped walking. Gareth stopped too. Standing on tiptoes so that I could reach his ear with my mouth, I whispered, ‘You said you loved me. Is that true?’

  Gareth’s ear turned bright pink and so did the rest of his face.

  I took another deep breath and put my hand up to his cheek so that I could turn his face towards mine. Our eyes met. Gareth has got very beautiful green eyes and even though those eyes are more than capable of completely fuddling my brain, there was no way that I was going to get fuddled right then.

  ‘I love you, Gareth Stingecombe,’ I said.

  Gareth’s green eyes widened. For a moment, he seemed to freeze in shock. And then, to my enormous relief, the hint of a smile that had been playing on his lips for some time grew into a great big lovely one. Cupping my face in his hands, he said, ‘This has got to be the most amazing moment ever!’ And then, right in the middle of the schoolyard, he kissed me and we stood there swapping the most intense and incredible kisses until Mrs Rowlands, the Welsh teacher, told us to stop being inappropriate and get to registration.

  And even though that was, without doubt, the best thing that happened to me today, it wasn’t the only highlight. Before I finish writing, there is something else I need to mention. On our way home from school, Goose and I spotted Elvis Presley standing on the traffic island in the middle of Whitchurch village. He was singing a song through his traffic cone to the people who were passing by. I turned to Goose and said, ‘I know this seems a bit random but I just need to have a quick word with Elvis.’

  Goose looked gobsmacked. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was your type,’ she said.

  I grinned. ‘Oh, jog on, Goose. You know I’m not interested in types.’

  We came to a stop by his bench. Through his vibrating traffic cone, Elvis said, ‘Hello there, little lady, are you feeling a bit more cheerful today?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But can you put your traffic cone down for a second, please, Elvis, because otherwise everyone in Whitchurch Village can hear.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Elvis and put his traffic cone beside him on the bench. ‘Is it a special request you’re after?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for talking to me the other day when I was really depressed, and for telling me about Socrates and life’s rich tapestry and examining the knots and everything. I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time but I did later on . . . when I’d had a chance to properly think about it all.’

  Elvis waved my thanks away with his hand. ‘My pleasure,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, and I got you a Christmas present,’ I said.

  Elvis looked surprised. So did Goose. I unzipped my coat and pulled out a second T-shirt that I’d been carrying around with me all day. This one had been stuffed between my arm and the sleeve of my coat. You have to be quite creative when you don’t carry a school bag.

  I passed the T-shirt to Elvis. He took it from me and looked at it. It was the T-shirt I’d had custom-made in Wrexham.

  To be honest, I’d had half a mind to give it to Goose. She’s definitely magic so she certainly deserves to wear it. But somehow, I felt that Elvis might benefit from it more. And anyway, it was way too big for Goose.

  Elvis Presley looked at the T-shirt, astonishment on his face. After a moment or two, he said, ‘This is for me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I thin
k it will suit you better than that T-shirt that says I drink therefore I am.’

  Elvis reddened and looked down at a couple of empty beer cans that were resting by his feet. ‘Oh, I dunno. It’s very nice of you. But I don’t think this magic stuff really applies to me, does it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I’m not much of a philosopher but I truly believe that the only person who can ultimately determine who or what we are is ourselves.’

  Elvis looked even more astonished. ‘Crikey,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t think they taught you kids anything at school any more.’ He smiled and then, to my utter delight, he pulled the T-shirt over his head and put it on over the top of his leather jacket. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘And even if you’re not, thank you very much!’ Then with a big smile, he picked up his traffic cone and began singing some random happy song at the top of his voice.

  Goose and I continued on our way home and I had tea with my mum and Ruthie – and in about two hours’ time Gareth Stingecombe is going to knock on my door and take me with him to the end-of-term disco where he’ll probably do bad beatboxing with Spud to all the Christmas hits on the CD player but still manage to make me the proudest and happiest girl in the entire school.

  And there’s not much more to say really . . . except for one more very important apology.

  And this time it’s to an elderly chinchilla who is currently sitting on my lap as I type all this into my computer. Because anyone with half a head knows that every pet deserves an owner who is totally devoted to them. So . . .

  I’m sorry, Winnie, for running away and neglecting you and I PROMISE that it won’t EVER happen again.

  And Winnie, who is probably the Wisest Chinchilla in the Whole of Wales, has just made a sweet chirping noise and bounced on to my desk to lick my hand. So I think this means I’m forgiven. And I’m really glad about that because Winnie’s opinion matters to me. He’s part of my world. And so is Ruthie and my mum and Goose and Gareth and even Elvis and Stevie and Lois. And to be honest, I think my life would be totally tragic and ridonkulous and untenable without them.