The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir
Page 6
‘So, B.W.,’ she smiled, ‘are you gonna enter the school talent competition?’
Biddy just stared at the ground, aware that her armpits were starting to drip with sweat.
‘Eh, is that a “yes” or a “no”, then?’ Alison quipped, winking at the other girls and snatching a glance at Craig, who raised his eyebrows just enough to let her know he was watching. ‘Well, probably best if you don’t bother, B.W. After all, you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself any more than you usually do. Pity there isn’t a category for bloody weirdos, though. You’d win that, for sure. Hands down. Just think, you could go through to represent the school at the national finals. And surely there isn’t a bloody weirdo in the whole country who’s weirder than you.’ Alison was on a roll now, and the sniggers from her expanding audience egged her on.
‘Picture it: assembly, the day after the finals . . . Mr Duncan on the stage, all the teachers lined up behind him. “I’d like you all to put your hands together for our very own Biddy Weir, the best Bloody Weirdo in the country”.’
A mock cheer went up from Alison’s audience. Biddy’s face burned as hot as the blazing sun. Her blouse was now soaked with sweat, her stomach churned with fear, and the lump in her throat was demanding release. Please stop it, please stop it, please stop it, she silently repeated, over and over.
But Alison was having fun.
‘Anyway, B.W., don’t be sad about not being able to enter the talent show. You’ll be there in spirit, if not in body, because you, B.W., are the inspiration for our act. Isn’t she, girls?’
‘Sure is, Alison,’ said Jackie.
‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ laughed Georgina.
‘Want to hear it, B.W.?’ teased Alison, slyly. ‘Want to hear your song?’ Biddy swallowed hard. There was nowhere to run, and even if there were, she wouldn’t have been able to move anyway.
‘We do, we do,’ chanted some of the onlookers, enjoying this unexpected afternoon entertainment more by the minute.
‘OK, girls, ready?’ Alison dropped her bag, loosened her already loose tie, undid the third button of her shirt to expose the teensiest bit of white lacy bra, and rolled up her sleeves. The others followed suit, only Julia not going the whole way with the buttons. They took their positions, bottoms stuck out, knees slightly bent, hands flicked out at the side of their hips, Alison standing slightly in front of the other three. The four of them had been practising their little routine in secret for two days and had perfected all the moves.
‘After three,’ said Alison, clearing her throat, adrenaline rushing through her veins. This was the best thing she’d come up with since Red Paint Day, and she could tell Craig was already impressed. Just wait until he heard the song!
‘One. Two. Three . . .
Look out here she comes, stompin’ down the street,
She’s the bloodiest weirdo that you ever will meet.
Oh yes she’s a weirdo
And she freaks us all out,
She’s ugly and she’s creepy,
There ain’t no bloody doubt.
There she goes again talkin’ to the birds
She’s a definite nutter, she’s a total nerd.
Oh yes she’s a weirdo,
And she freaks us all out.
She’s ugly and she’s creepy,
There ain’t no bloody doubt . . .’
A roar of appreciation went up from the crowd. Alison, Jackie, Georgina and Julia bowed and curtsied, loving the attention, delighted with their performance. Alison looked over at Craig, and tossed her hair. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, spat out his gum, and winked. Yes! She’d got him. She picked up her school bag, pushed her way past Jackie, Georgina and Julia and sashayed over to join Craig in the queue. The others, enjoying their fifteen seconds of fame, laughed and chatted with the crowd that had gathered around them.
Biddy stood alone, head bent, hot tears streaming down her face, snot dripping from her nose. The bus came. Everyone pushed on. Alison sat with Craig on the back seat. Jackie, Georgina and Julia were all given seats as reward for their fantastic performance. Everyone on board started singing the song as the bus pulled away from the stop, but no one noticed Biddy – still crying, still standing, head bent, at exactly the same spot. Another bus came and went. Then another, and another. But Biddy stayed where she was, rooted to the spot for over an hour, until the sun began to lose its heat and she finally found the strength to start the walk back to Stanley Street. She never took the school bus home again.
7.
The years dragged by. Biddy’s life was heavy and weary, the persecution exhausting. On the worst days, the days when something big happened, ‘episode days’, as she came to call them, she wanted to curl up, go to sleep and never wake up. She lived for the good days, the days when Alison and the others completely ignored her. The best days of all were the ones when, for whatever reason, Alison wasn’t at school – and, of course, weekends and holidays, when she could escape to the beach to draw.
Biddy’s only true pleasure in life, the one thing that kept her going, was her drawing. She would often sit on the pebble beach, sketching the sea and the seagulls, oblivious to everything else around her. Now and again a shout of ‘Hey, it’s Bloody Weirdo,’ or ‘Talking to the birds again, B.W.?’ came from the wall or the promenade. But no one ever came down to bother her on the beach. It was her sanctuary.
One cold Saturday afternoon in late January of Fourth Form, Biddy was sitting at her usual spot by the corner of some rocks, wrapped in the red and blue tartan shawl her father had given her for Christmas, along with a big artist’s sketchpad and a new set of pencils. They were the best presents she had ever had from him.
‘For your beach days,’ he had said, smiling softly when Biddy gasped with delight.
They never discussed her art, but every now and then Mr Weir would go into her room when she was at school, and pull out the mound of sketches she kept stuffed under her bed. He could spend hours sitting on the end of her bed, staring at the pages, tracing his fingers over the dancing waves, caressing the wings of the seagulls. They looked so real, he almost expected them to leap off the page and fly away. Now and again he was moved to tears. But he never told Biddy he looked at her drawings, never told her how much he loved them, how very, very proud he was to have a daughter with such an outstanding talent. So she never knew.
The low winter sun cast a pale yellow glow across the sea. The light was beginning to fade as a shutter of blue-grey sky drew down towards the water. The seagulls swooped up and down, their shrieks calling the end of the day. Biddy looked up from her sketchpad, realising it was almost time to pack up, and noticed a young couple by the edge of the water wrapped up in colourful hats and scarves. They had their arms around each other. As they drew closer, she heard the girl laugh at something the boy had whispered in her ear, and her stomach sank. She would know that laugh anywhere.
It was Alison with an older boy she didn’t recognise. He was tall and lean, with blond floppy hair and rosy cheeks, burning from the cold. His black and green stripy scarf told her he went to the private boys’ school in Collingsford, the neighbouring town just a few miles away.
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t B.W.,’ Biddy heard Alison say to the boy as they drew nearer.
‘Oh, I recognise her, I’ve seen her on the beach before,’ he replied. ‘She’s always drawing. Do you know her?’
‘Know her?!’ laughed Alison as they drew level with Biddy, ‘I made her what she is today, didn’t I, B.W.?’
Biddy shivered and bit her lip. This was a Saturday. Episodes weren’t supposed to happen on Saturdays. This had been a good day and now it was ruined. The lump started to rise in her throat.
‘She’s good,’ said the boy, looking down at Biddy’s drawing. His big brown eyes reminded her of chocolate buttons. ‘Bloody good, in fact.’
Biddy’s face reddened. She assumed he must be referring to her weirdness. She swallowed hard, pushing the lump down.
Alison stomped off, turning back to pull Marcus’s arm.
‘Come on,’ she screamed.
‘All right, all right,’ said the boy, obviously surprised at this sudden change in Alison’s mood. ‘I’m coming.’
He looked down again at Biddy’s sketchpad and smiled.
‘I mean it, that’s great work. Keep it up,’ he said softly, and smiled. He stood for a second, waiting for some kind of a response, but Biddy just stared back, unable to speak or move.
‘Bye, then.’ Marcus shrugged his shoulders and ran to catch up with Alison. Looking over his shoulder as he reached the wall, he saw that Biddy was still staring at him with unblinking eyes, her face expressionless.
‘Hey Ali, who’s the artist?’ he asked, as he drew level with her. ‘She’s awfully shy.’
‘I told you, B.W.,’ she growled folding her arms, ‘and she’s not a bloody artist, OK?’
‘Steady on, Ali,’ said Marcus, shocked. ‘I thought that sketch was pretty brilliant actually, and anyone who can draw like that is an artist, in my book.’
‘Well, in my book she’s just a bloody fucking weirdo, OK? B.W. – Bloody Weirdo. Get it?’ she screamed in his face.
It was the first time that Alison had lost her composure in front of someone whom she only wanted to impress. She was normally such a proficient chameleon that she could charm anyone she chose to ensnare. And she desperately wanted to impress Marcus Baxter. Marcus had the most impressive credentials of any of her previous boyfriends and his prospects were nothing short of magnificent. Two years older than Alison, he was already a prefect and a House Captain at Collingsford School for Boys, and was tipped to be Head Boy next year. And although he hadn’t told her so himself, she had heard, through a friend of her mother, that he was a cert for either Oxford or Cambridge. His only problem would be choosing which one to go to. As she was bound to be Head Girl herself when the time came, and as she’d always harboured Oxbridge aspirations, they made the perfect match. Marcus had such exquisite long-term potential that she was determined not to let the fact that he appeared to be a proper gentleman put her off. So far there had been no sign of anything more than a long, soft snog, which was nice enough: but she wanted more. But it was early days. She knew he fancied her rotten and it would only be a matter of time before he gave in – even to go to second base, though her ultimate goal was much farther than that. She just had to keep on doing what she was doing: woo him with her charm and beauty and multitude of talents.
But Alison screwed up that day on the beach. She let her mask slip and her unsavoury behaviour had a detrimental impact on Marcus. He dumped her the very next day. Alison wasn’t used to rejection, and the shock of being dropped by a boy made her miss two days of school. She was utterly distraught, especially when her mother announced that Diana James had been on the phone that very afternoon and told her that Selina Burton was going out with Lana La Grue’s son, Oliver.
‘And I told her that you were dating Marcus Baxter,’ gasped an equally distraught Felicity. ‘Diana knows the Baxter family. The grandfather is something or other in the art world. Apparently they have an original Van Gogh. What am I going to say to her next time she phones?’
That was the last straw for Alison. The thought of Selina Burton going out with Oliver La Grue was like a knife twisting in her gut. All these years on and that snotty rich bitch was still getting one up on her. And now, because of that fucking stupid weirdo, she’d just lost the best catch she’d ever managed to snare. All the talents she possessed: her beauty, the multitude of cups and certificates she had been awarded at school, her recent Distinction at Grade 6 piano, her cert for the hockey captaincy next year – all of these things, yet Marcus had been more impressed by that weirdo’s stupid scribbles. She collapsed on the sofa in a fit of violent, noisy, unattractive tears.
‘George!’ screamed her mother. ‘Can’t you do something?’
‘Ahem, shall I . . . shall I get some tissues?’ her father stammered, and shuffled from the room.
‘You useless, spineless man,’ Felicity yelled after him, starting to cry herself. ‘This is all your fault.’
In that instant Alison realised just how much she had in common with her mother, although it galled her to admit it. She was right, it was all her father’s fault. Alison had long since given up on her father’s ability to provide an escape route from this small-town hellhole, so she’d started to look for other options. Marcus may be a little intense at times, and somewhat dull at others, but his potential was enormous. And he drove his own car too, which was the icing on the cake: a brand new racing-green Mini with a cream roof, a present from his grandmother for passing his driving test. Alison saw Marcus as her ticket out of Ballybrock. And even if that ticket only took her as far as Collingsford, and on weekends, that would do for now.
But now her plan was in tatters. B.W. had as good as ripped that ticket up and flushed it down the toilet. Well, the weirdo would pay. This time it was personal. But she wouldn’t rush into anything. She would bide her time, pick her moment and give the weirdo bitch the biggest kick in the stomach she’d ever had.
The day Alison returned to school following her ‘illness’ she followed Biddy into the toilets at lunchtime and grabbed her by the arm as she came out of the cubicle. ‘You fucking weirdo bitch. Thanks to you my boyfriend is not my boyfriend anymore,’ she hissed in Biddy’s ear. ‘But you’ll pay for this. I promise. So you better watch your back, Bloody Weirdo, because you never know when I’m going to pounce.’ Alison let go of Biddy’s arm, grabbed her tie and leered in her face. ‘Could be next week. Could be next month. Could be next year. Only I know when.’
She flicked Biddy’s tie in her face then shoved her against the damp pink wall. ‘Ugh,’ she snarled in disgust, holding up her hands. She washed them using three squirts of soap, dried them with a paper towel, scrunched the towel into a ball and tossed it at Biddy before smoothing down her hair, checking herself in the mirror and swaying out of the toilets.
Biddy stood splayed against the wall, shaking. Alison’s abuse wasn’t normally physical. Biddy knew she didn’t like to touch her, so why now? What had prompted this? And why would Alison’s boyfriend stop being her boyfriend because of her? What had she done to make that happen?
Retching, she staggered into the closest cubicle, and when the bile had passed, she sat on the toilet, rocking back and forth, willing the pain in her stomach and chest to go away.
Bending over to rest her head on her knees, she noticed the large safety pin holding the strap of her schoolbag in place. She stared at it for a few seconds, focusing her attention on the curve of the pin head. There was something comforting about it, calming almost. The pain in her chest began to subside. She unfastened the pin and removed it from the strap, then slowly rolled up her sleeve and pierced the pin tip into her forearm, holding it firmly in place for a second or two. Then she did it again, and again, until the piercing became a frenzied attack that lasted for almost a minute. When she eventually stopped, she sat in a daze for several minutes, watching the tiny bubbles of blood burst and trickle down her arm like little red streams. The pattern they made was mesmerising, and for a few seconds, all thoughts of Alison vanished. The bell signalling the end of lunch break jolted Biddy back to reality. She tore off a few sheets of toilet roll and folded them into a neat square, spat on it and held it down hard on the prick marks until the bleeding stopped. Then, with another piece of toilet roll, she mopped up the blood, rolled down her sleeve, splashed her face in cold water, and went to class.
8.
Biddy still liked bird poo, but her interest in it began to wane when she discovered that sticking pins into her skin was a much more liberating pastime. The pain she felt in her arms from the sharp jab of the pins was a welcome relief from
the constant, throbbing ache in her chest, her throat and her head. When her arms became numb to the pricking sensation, she moved down to her stomach, her thighs and the soles of her feet. She was careful not to mark herself on any part of her body that might be seen – not that she reckoned anyone would ever pay enough attention to her to notice. But just in case, she started wearing long-sleeved T-shirts and knee-length shorts at P.E., and she always got changed in a cubicle. It didn’t matter if she looked ridiculous, as she always looked ridiculous: she might not be normal, she might be a weirdo, but at least she was aware of it. Besides, they’d ridicule her anyway, regardless of what she wore. Just so long as they didn’t see her tiny scabs and scars, as that would make things so much worse. In a way she felt oddly protective about her scars. They were private, personal. Her little secret. She’d never had a secret before, and it felt good.
More and more often, Biddy made sure she got out of any games activity whenever she could, which wasn’t difficult. She was pretty useless at ball games, and as no one wanted her on their team anyway, she was only selected if numbers were low as a last and extremely reluctant resort. And as track and field events were optional, she always opted out.
*
It was early May, in the last term of Fourth Form. Biddy had been sitting on the bench for the entire fifth period netball session, sketching birds in a notebook. Yet again there had been one girl too many for an equal team ratio, and yet again, Biddy had volunteered to sit on the side-lines and be the sub. She jumped when Miss Jordan, the new young P.E. teacher, sat down beside her. Teachers didn’t normally get this close to Biddy and she instantly wondered what she’d done wrong. Was Miss Jordan going to insist that she had to participate more during P.E.?