My Friend Miranda

by Im Griffin

  Given that science lessons proved too embarrassing a forum for discussing the real nitty-gritty of sex, or sexual intercourse as we called it, a group of us began our own discussion club. It was called ‘What-where-when’ from the first time that Sinead suggested it and I said “Ok: What-where-when?”

  The topics of conversation were the usual ones: breasts (who had them and who hadn’t); periods (who’d started and who hadn’t); and sex (no one had even come close, but that didn’t stop us from speculating). The location was Fernando’s Hideaway, which was the end toilet cubicle in the little-used and rather decrepit block next to the science labs. For no obvious reason the toilet itself had been removed, and this meant that several people could cram in, with the door locked for maximum privacy. The die-hard members were Sinead and myself, the founders, and Miranda and Rachel, but Lynn Docherty and Gillian Mailer often tagged along as well.

  Miranda was a complete hoot in these meetings. It was as if she’d been on another planet all the time the rest of us had been reading Judy Blume books and the entries under whatever rude words we could think of in the Encyclopedia Britannica. The total sum of her knowledge was what she’d gleaned from Mrs Donaldson’s lessons, and even then she seemed to have screened out any bits she found unpleasant or confusing.

  To begin with we set the general tone of things by discussing the awful books our mothers had bought us to introduce the joys of ‘becoming a woman’. Lynn’s sounded like the worst, and she agreed to bring it in for general consumption. It turned out to be a horribly dated effort called ‘Have You Started Yet?’ with cheesy illustrations of beaming girls in flares and platform shoes. There was a picture of a girl in it with a stupid-looking belt around her waist and a big lumpy sanitary towel strapped onto it. Her glowing smile was utterly unconvincing.

  “No way am I wearing that!” Rachel snorted.

  “You don’t have to anymore,” Miranda said, knowledgeable about one thing at least (she got to act all superior just because shehad started). “They make them with sticky strips on.”

  The fact that we were safe wasn’t enough for Rachel. She was outraged that any woman had ever at any point in history been forced to suffer the indignity of a pink plastic belt and something that looked like a disposable nappy.

  “That’s not the point! I bet if men had to wear those ridiculous contraptions they’d have come up with the sticky strips a damn site faster!”

  “And another thing...” Miranda continued. “Did you know that we have to pay VAT on towels? Because they count as a luxury item!”

  “Luxury item? Is that some kind of sick joke? Can’t Maggie do something about it?”

  “What does she care?” Sinead scoffed. “She’s too old for periods and she’s a capitalist anyway – profit at any cost!”

  So ‘What-where-when’ wasn’t just about sex. We had feminism and politics in there too.

  Another discussion was prompted by a book doing the rounds of the class,Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews. It was a story about a boy and a girl who are kept locked in an attic by their evil mother. They go through puberty and eventually end up having sexual intercourse together, much to our incredulity. The general feeling was that being imprisoned together in an attic would be insufficient to make any of us have sex with our brothers, particularly after Rachel had given a graphic and unpleasant account of what her teenage brother looked like without clothes on.

  Sex aside, we were divided as to the literary quality of the book. I condemned it as being of little literary merit, even though I had enjoyed it immensely, and Miranda hadn’t got round to it yet (she was probably still deep into the Swallows and Amazons), but everyone else thought it was ‘really moving’ and the best thing they had ever read. Sinead, who had originally acquired the book from an elder cousin, reported thatFlowers in the Attic was only the first in a huge series, and they all suddenly showed great enthusiasm for visiting their local libraries.

  The inevitable conclusion to all the talking and reading about sex was to start doing some writing about it. Practically everyone in the class had readFlowers in the Attic and there were much ruder books in circulation too, with pictures of scantily clad women and butch men on the covers, and titles like Too Hot to Stop. Having studied the medium ad infinitum Vikki and Trisha felt that there was easy money to be made, and they announced that our class was going to write a porn novel. This was later amended to a short story because a novel would take too long, but between us we could knock off a short story in a day, for submission to one of the kind of magazines Trisha claimed her Dad kept in his shed.

  “How can weall write it though?” Katherine wanted to know.

  “Simple!” beamed Trisha. “We’ll do it as a chain letter. I’ll start it just to get things moving, then I’ll give it to Jasmine and it can go round the class in alphabetical order. Everyone has to write something, and you have to initial it too so we can find out who’s got the dirtiest mind.”

  It sounded to me more like an opportunity to show off our sexual knowledge or lack of it than a serious attempt to produce a publishable story, but I didn’t say anything. I was confident I could hold my own anyway – the advantage of reading a lot is that you do tend to pick things up.

  At break time Vikki and Trisha retreated into a corner, where with much laughter and sniggering they filled the first page of a brand new rough book with Vikki’s rounded script.

  “Can I read it?” pleaded Katherine but Trisha was adamant.

  “Not until it comes round to you. Jasmine gets it first.” She strutted over and handed the book to Jasmine, instructing her to ‘guard it with your life’.

  As luck would have it the next lesson presented an ideal opportunity to get cracking on the story, firstly because Mrs Langley was away and so had left us a comprehension to do, and secondly because the teacher who rolled up to supervise us was Mrs Griffiths, a dozy old thing who wouldn’t have noticed if we’d staged a live sex show in the middle of the classroom. Jasmine opened the rough book and everyone held their breath and pretended to concentrate on the comprehension. As she read it her eyes grew bigger and bigger, and she turned round to stare at Vikki and Trisha in mock horror. They cackled with glee and exchanged thumbs up signs.

  “It’s disgusting!” Jasmine whispered to her neighbour, who leaned across to see but moved back quickly on the receipt of a stern look from Trisha.

  By the end of the lesson the book had been written in by Jasmine, Naomi and Anita. There should have been time for more people, but Anita had it for at least twenty minutes.

  “We’ve got to get our speed up,” Trisha urged as we jostled along the corridor to history. “At this rate it’ll take days to go round the class.”

  At lunchtime the book was requisitioned so that Vikki and Trisha could check the contents were ‘dirty enough’.

  “We don’t want crappy soft porn,” Trisha explained to the curious masses. “It’s got to be hard core – right Vikki?”

  Vikki was already engrossed in the story, sucking her breath in with mock prudishness. “Have you seen this Trisha?” She pointed halfway down the page.

  “Let’s see.” Trisha grabbed the book and studied it frowningly. “What does that bit say? No! Oh my God! Who on earth wrote that?”

  Vikki pointed helpfully to the initials in the margin.

  “Anita Chetty!” Trisha exclaimed. “Well I never! You little slut!”

  Anita blushed proudly. “That’s why I took so long. You can’t force creativity, you know.”

  “Bloody hell!” Trisha was still in shock. “With talent like that you’ll have to do the ending. Someone tell Emily to give it back to Anita when she’s finished.”

  Reluctant as I was to show interest in one of Vikki and Trisha’s projects, I couldn’t help getting sucked in by the hype surroundingDirty Dick gets his Dingo Out (the title had been suggested by Anita, our resident porn queen). Trisha took the book home with her that night for safe-keeping, and it wasn’t until Religious
Studies the next day that the slim volume finally made its surreptitious appearance onto my desk, smuggled inside the pages of a Good News bible.

  I propped the bible up to make a protective screen and opened the rough book behind it. ‘Dirty Dick’s Dingo was twitching inside his leather trousers. Three days had passed since his last shag, and he was gagging for some nubile female flesh’ the story began. I was impressed that Vikki and Trisha knew what nubile meant. It went on to describe how, having exhausted his pool of available women, Dirty Dick poses as a PE teacher and manages to get a job in a girls’ school. From then onwards there was not much in the way of plot as the writers created an increasingly outrageous catalogue of Dirty Dick’s sexual exploits in their attempts to out-do one another. I could see why Trisha had been so impressed by Anita: her description of group sex in the school swimming pool involved practises which I’d never heard of, and also showed Dick to be man of formidable lung capacity.

  It was a hard act to follow, but in the end I hit upon the scenario of Dick in the dining hall licking custard from every orifice of the fat, Glaswegian dinner lady. My text was not as blatant or crude as some of the other entries, but I thought it made up for this in originality and eroticism. I printed my initials with pride and waited for a safe moment to pass the masterpiece on.

  By the time we got to maths there were only three people left to write: Honey, Miranda and Emily. Someone had leaked the plot, or what there was of it, to Honey, and once she got the hang of the idea she seemed quite enthusiastic. She had asked me what I thought about casting Dick in the starring role in the Christmas pantomime, ‘Pussy in Boots’, and I had been mildly impressed and said so – clearly there was more to Honey than we usually gave her credit for. Thus prepared she was done quite quickly and the book went forward to Miranda, who read it with an air of bemused incomprehension and pondered her entry at length.

  Eventually Miranda managed to write something. She closed the book carefully and leaned forward to tap Emily on the shoulder. Emily resolutely ignored her. I could see Miranda whispering to her, but all that Emily did was move her desk a few inches forward and hunch her shoulders protectively over her work. I sighed to myself. It hadn’t occurred to Trisha that anyone would defy her by refusing to write in the book, but obviously, if anyone was going to take a superior moral stance it would be Emily.

  The best course of action for Miranda would have been to give up on Emily and put the book away. Emily sat directly in front of Miss Heaney’s desk, and there was a risk that all this activity was going to attract her attention. Unfortunately though, Miranda was very stubborn and I could tell that she was growing increasingly irritated by Emily’s attempts to ignore her. She rammed the book into Emily’s back a couple of times, and when this had no effect she took aim and lobbed it over Emily’s shoulder.

  The book landed neatly in the middle of Emily’s desk. Emily looked down at it and then up at Miss Heaney, who was already half out of her seat. There was a collective holding of breath as the rest of the class finally realised what was going on.

  “What have you got there, Emily?” Miss Heaney enquired icily.

  Emily was wearing her best goody-two-shoes face. She was enjoying this. “I don’t know Miss. It just landed on my desk.”

  “Over to me then please.” We watched in stunned silence as Miss Heaney held her hand out and Emily gave her the book. Trisha leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes heavenwards, while Vikki shook her head in disbelief. Anita had gone completely white. Miss Heaney realised she had an audience and rounded angrily upon us.

  “And I don’t know what you’re all staring at. Get back to work at once!”

  There was some pretence at working, but really everyone was watching to see how Miss Heaney would react to the contents of the book. She had opened it and was reading it with a totally deadpan expression. Eventually she put it down, hopefully before she got to the bit about the custard, and leaned forward to address us. She was very angry but her voice was low and measured.

  “There are two issues here. The first is the nature of this sordid piece of writing. I am horrified by what you have written, and I can only imagine how your parents would react if they saw some of the filth you have produced. It may well be that they will have to be shown the contents of this book...”

  We looked at one another in horror.

  “...Although that is not for me to decide. However, the second issue which in my opinion is far more serious is that you have clearly been writing inside this book during lessons. I assume from the initials alongside the text that everyone has been involved – am I right?

  We all nodded sheepishly with the exception of Emily, who tentatively raised her hand. Miss Heaney curtly acknowledged her.

  “Yes, you excepted Emily. But the rest of you have wasted your own time and your teachers’ time in doing something which is completely stupid and trivial.” I wondered if anyone would point out that there could be good money to be made from our porn story, but no one did. Miss Heaney was pondering a suitably severe punishment.

  “Given that you all like writing so much, I will expect a five page essay from everyone tomorrow morning on why time-wasting is unacceptable.”

  A ripple of discontent ran round the class. Miss Heaney often set essays with stupid titles, but they were usually two pages long, not five.

  “And,” Miss Heaney continued, “you will all be on litter-picking duty tomorrow lunchtime.” There was a groan from someone at the back. Miss Heaney rapped the top of her desk.

  “I will be giving your literary effort to Mrs Mackintosh. As I said, it may be that she will wish to involve your parents.” Suddenly she looked very old and tired. She gestured wearily to the problems on the board.

  “Please ensure that you have copied down all the problems before the bell goes, because I will expect them completed to make up for the time wasted during my lesson.”

  Five minutes later the bell sounded and we departed in relative silence, although there was a buzz of conversation once we reached the corridor.

  “Did you see her face?” Trisha snorted. “I thought she was going to wet herself!”

  “Yes but did you hear what she said about getting Mrs Mackintosh to tell our parents?” Anita said anxiously. Her parents were renowned for their strictness.

  “Nah, don’t worry Nit.” Trisha was cheerfully confident. “Mackintosh won’t tell, it’s not her style.”

  This seemed to be the general feeling, and the mood was more one of hysterical relief than glum repentance. There was just one thing bothering Trisha.

  “I’ll tell you one thing though – Emily’s for it tomorrow. Stupid cow.”

  “I don’t know what it is Miss, it just landed on my desk,” Vikki mimicked bitterly.

  I wondered if Miranda would come in for some stick too. Trust her to have landed herself in itagain.

  Emily arrived at school the next morning to find Vikki and Trisha in wait for her. Trisha was on top form and she lost no time in pinching Emily’s arm and demanding to know ‘what she thought she was playing at’. Emily was clearly scared but she stood her ground.

  “If you touch me again I’ll go straight to Mrs Mackintosh and then she really will show that horrible story to your parents.”

  Trisha eyed her warily. She was already on a warning from Mrs Mackintosh and had been threatened with losing her place on the inter-form sports teams.

  “And besides...” Emily continued craftily. “It’s not me you should be blaming, it’s Miranda. She was the one flinging the book around in full view of Miss Heaney.”

  Trisha knew Emily was a lying little toad but under the circumstances she didn’t have much choice. She released Emily’s arm and marched over to Miranda’s desk with Vikki trailing behind her.

  “Thanks a lot Sturdy. You really know how to screw things up.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Miranda whispered.

  Trisha appeared not to have heard her. “Thought you’d score a few poin
ts with your precious Miss Heaney did you?” It had not escaped Trisha’s notice that Miss Heaney had a soft spot for Miranda, and given that the teachers unanimously hated Trisha she was probably jealous.

  Miranda shrugged, and, anxious that she wasn’t getting enough of a response, Trisha jostled against her, pushing Miranda back onto her desk.

  “Ow!”

  Miranda had caught her finger on the desk lid and blood was already oozing out of an ugly crescent-shaped cut. Trisha looked at it doubtfully; she hadn’t actually intended to draw blood. I thought I’d better try and intervene.

  “Come on Mim, I’ll take you to the medical room for a plaster.”

  In the medical room the nurse clucked around Miranda as if they were bosom buddies. “You have been in the wars recently, haven’t you Miranda?”

  She saw me looking puzzled and went on to explain.

  “Just last week she cut her knee playing netball, then she was in Monday and Tuesday this week with a tummy bug...”

  The tummy bug didn’t surprise me much, Miranda was always sick these days, but the netball injury? We didn’t even play netball in summer term. I tried unsuccessfully to ask Miranda about it on the way back up.

  “I just fell over outside. It was nothing really.”

  “So why did you say you did it in netball?”

  “It was nothing, right? End of story.”

  “God, ok.”

  Talk about grumpy. I had more fun in double needlework lessons these days than I did with Miranda.

  Chapter 18

  There were always various charity events happening at school, and the latest to be announced was a talent competition. The class organising it was determined they were going to make more money than the summer fair, and they promoted it heavily, with posters everywhere, and people coming around with application forms pestering us to enter. I wouldn’t have dreamt of putting myself through such humiliation, but Miranda clearly thought otherwise, and she approached me one morning when I was playing hangman with Sinead. We’d pretty much given up on getting the bus together in the mornings, since Miranda seemed incapable of getting out of bed on time, and she was hardly a barrel of laughs when she did turn up.