The Lonely Life of Biddy Weir

by Lesley Allen

  ‘What’s it to be, then? Coffee? Tea? Coke?’

  ‘Coke please, Miss Jordan,’ said Biddy shyly. She’d never tasted Coca-Cola before, or Fanta, or even lemonade. Her father didn’t allow fizzy drinks in the house, just cordial. Biddy used to watch from her bedroom window as the other children in her street queued up with their mothers at the Lemonade Man’s van on a Friday afternoon, excitedly jumping up and down when it was their turn to get bottles of pink, orange, brown and green fizzy juice.

  ‘What about a biscuit, or a donut, or some chocolate cake?’ Biddy looked at the huge array of sweet things on offer and longed to try all of them. She really wanted to taste a donut, but she was too nervous to eat and she knew that any food just now would make her gag.

  ‘No thank you, Miss Jordan, just a Coke, please,’ she replied politely.

  ‘Why don’t you go and get us a seat,’ said Penny, ‘and I’ll bring the drinks across.’

  Biddy chose a table in the back corner of the café and tucked her basket under a chair, relieved to be rid of the weight of it. She watched Miss Jordan speak to the lady behind the till. The lady laughed at something Miss Jordan said and the yellow hair piled on top of her head like a lemon-top ice cream, wobbled like it might fall down. Were they laughing at her? Was Miss Jordan telling the lemon-top-haired lady that she was having to sit down for her coffee with some silly little schoolgirl? What was she doing here? Miss Jordan’s back was now turned and it looked like she was placing bits and pieces on a tray. If I leave now, she thought, I’ll make it to the door before she turns around. Biddy stood up, but she was too late, the teacher was already moving towards her, smiling.

  ‘Here you are, Coke for you and a cappuccino for me. And I got you a donut just in case. Don’t worry if you don’t want it, I’ll eat them both,’ she winked.

  Biddy took the drink without speaking and sucked the brown liquid through a red and white stripy straw. The fizz and flavour took her by surprise. She was shocked at how nice it was. It made her feel giddy and she smiled at Miss Jordan like an excited child.

  ‘You know, Biddy, I’m really glad I bumped into you, as our chat the other day was cut short, and then yesterday, well, the playground really wasn’t the place to resume it.’ Miss Jordan took a bite from her donut and closed her eyes for a second. ‘Mmmm . . . my guilty pleasure.’ Biddy watched, mesmerised, as the teacher slowly chewed the bun and swallowed, then took a sip from her frothy drink. ‘You’ve been on my mind a lot, Biddy, and, well, there’s something else I really wanted to ask you.’ Biddy nodded, still captivated by the taste of the Coke, which was bouncing around her mouth, and eyeing the donut sat on the plate in front of her. Could she be brave enough to take a bite? she wondered.

  ‘This might sound entirely inappropriate, Biddy, but I promise you I’m just trying to help. The thing is, I’ve noticed that you look very uncomfortable during P.E. lessons; you know, when you are participating.’

  I could maybe try a bite and see, thought Biddy, tentatively cutting the donut in half, then half again.

  ‘I know you don’t like P.E., and I was wondering if one of the reasons you’d rather not participate is because, well, because of your discomfort . . .’

  Biddy put the quarter piece of donut into her mouth and let it sit on her tongue. It was like a cake version of a Kimberley: but the sugar was on top, and instead of a marshmallow filling there was the most delicious, bouncy bready stuff. She went straight in for a second piece.

  ‘Biddy?’

  Biddy looked at Miss Jordan, startled. Had she missed something? Had Miss Jordan asked her a question? She must think me so rude, she thought. She’s bought me a Coke and a donut and been kind to me for the third time, and I don’t even know what she said to me.

  ‘Is that why you try to avoid games?’

  ‘I don’t like P.E.,’ said Biddy, licking her fingers.

  ‘Yes, I know, Biddy, and that’s OK. You don’t have to like it. But I’m afraid it is on the curriculum, so you really can’t avoid it all the time. I know you walk a lot, which is great because exercise is really good for you, and very important.’

  Biddy nodded and took another sip of her Coke. She wondered where Miss Jordan was going, but was finding it difficult to concentrate due to the explosion of new tastes and sensations in her mouth.

  Penny cleared her throat ever so slightly. This was proving more difficult than she had anticipated, not that she’d actually rehearsed the conversation. And she certainly hadn’t expected to be sitting with Biddy in the supermarket café when she left home this morning. Sam went to visit her elderly grandmother every Saturday morning, so Penny always did the shopping, and she quite enjoyed rambling around the aisles and the twenty minutes or so she spent in the café afterwards. It was the only ‘me’ time she really had to herself. She thought of Sam now, and, for the hundredth time considered that she really should heed her girlfriend’s advice and mind her own business. It wasn’t too late. She could leave it here, not say another word about it, change the direction of the conversation entirely. But her stubborn streak compelled her to carry on. She took a deep breath and went for it.

  ‘The thing is, Biddy, I can’t help thinking that perhaps if you wore a bra for P.E. lessons, it might make all the running around and so on a bit, well, easier for you. More comfortable. Then, maybe, you might enjoy P.E. a little bit more.’

  There, she’d said it. This was what Penny had intended to talk to Biddy about from the beginning. A nagging doubt that Biddy didn’t realise she needed a bra had disturbed her from the first time she had taken Biddy’s class for P.E. But how in God’s name were you supposed to bring up the subject of bras with a fifteen-year-old girl who was not just your pupil, but obviously had serious issues? Especially when you were gay? She’d asked a few of the teachers in the staff room about Biddy, but none of them seemed at all interested. ‘Bit of an oddball, that one,’ one had said. ‘Hmm. Strange girl,’ said another, raising his eyebrows. Most just shrugged their shoulders. She did manage to ascertain that Biddy lived alone with her father, who was also, by all accounts, a bit of a loner himself. ‘An oddball,’ was how one or two of her colleagues described him. She knew how difficult it was to grow up without a mother, especially through your teenage years. Auntie Celia had saved her, but it seemed that there was no one, no female at least, in Biddy’s life to save her. So now, here she was, sitting in a supermarket café, trying to talk to the girl about bloody bras.

  Biddy’s hand stopped mid-way to her mouth, the last piece of the donut in it. She couldn’t believe what Miss Jordan had just said. She’d learnt about bras from advertisements, and pictures she’d seen, and she’d thought many times that she probably should have one herself because of the way her breasts moved uncomfortably under her vest, but she hadn’t realised it was obvious. Uncomfortable. That’s exactly what Miss Jordan had said. She’d felt it earlier when the sweat was running down between her breasts, and wondered now if Miss Jordan could somehow see the dampness of her vest under her shirt. Glancing down, she was relieved to see no visible trace of sweat, but it did seem suddenly, glaringly obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Biddy knew all the other girls in her year wore bras. Sometimes they were visible through their school shirts. Alison’s always was. And though she always got changed in one of the three cubicles in the girls’ changing room, she could see through the gap at the side of the curtains, and often caught glimpses of the others running around in their underwear, whooping and giggling. Alison’s bra and pants always seemed to match. She always looked away quickly, not wanting to have seen, embarrassed by her faded knickers and saggy vest.

  Biddy shook her head and put her hands up to her face, dropping the piece of donut on the table. If Miss Jordan knew she needed a bra, then so did everyone else. If Miss Jordan could see it, then so could they. And how they must laugh about it. More proof, if more was needed, of her weirdness.

  The lump punched at the back of her throat. The donu
t and Coke, which a second ago had made her feel lighter and giddier than she’d ever felt before, now churned like lead in her stomach.

  As the sickness stirred, the memory of the day not so long ago when she had finally plucked the courage from God knows where to go into Lorraine’s Lingerie on the High Street, made her wince. It was going to be like that horror all over again. From the day it opened a year or so ago, Biddy knew the lingerie shop, which was next door to McDaid’s Butchers, was a source of embarrassment to her father. Each time they passed it he spluttered a strange little cough, and visibly averted his eyes from the mannequins in the window adorned with bras and pants and short, frilly see-through night dresses. But she also knew he wouldn’t stop going to McDaid’s. Loyalty was important to her father. As far as she could remember they had never bought their meat from anywhere else, and it was unlikely that even a ladies’ underwear shop would change that habit. Biddy felt embarrassed too, but mostly because she found herself wanting to have a closer look. She’d have liked to stop and stare at the mannequins, who all looked so pretty. Is this the type of stuff real grown-up women wear, she wondered? Did her mother have underwear like this, in soft creams and pale pinks, and deep reds trimmed with black? Did she wear turquoise blue frilly nighties, or pastel peach ones? Her own tatty flannel pyjamas and saggy, faded vests made her blush, as did her increasing suspicion that she needed to wear a bra herself. But she had no idea how she was supposed to get one. Was it just a case of going into this shop, picking a bra from a shelf or a rail, and then buying it? Or was there more to it than that? And how much did they cost? Should she bring all of the money in her piggy bank, and the coins stashed in a plastic bag under her bed with her? Would she even be allowed in a shop like that? Every time they passed Lorraine’s, Biddy wished her mother was here to help. Her mother would know what to do; she’d show her what was what. She’d teach her about this part of growing up.

  Eventually, when her vests began rubbing under her armpits, Biddy had tried the charity shops, but couldn’t see any bras on display in any of them. And there was no way she was asking any of the assistants; not even the nice lady with the long grey hair in War on Want, the only one who ever smiled at her, and sometimes picked her out a cardigan, or a pair of trousers. So one Saturday, a couple of months back, when she was dispatched into town on her own to buy the groceries as her father had a heavy cold, she found herself pushing open the door of Lorraine’s Lingerie and stepping inside. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but what she saw made her gasp. Rows and rows of bras, some hanging on rails, some in boxes on slanted shelves. There were other rails displaying nighties like the ones in the window in a multitude of colours, most of them very short with matching pants. There were knickers, and stockings and slips and even swimsuits. Biddy had never seen anything like it. The clash of colours and patterns made her feel quite dizzy. She thought it must resemble a tropical aviary, but one where all of the poor birds were trapped in a small, tight space with no room to spread their wings, never mind fly. She could see the legs of the shop assistant – who, she wondered, was Lorraine? – on a set of stepladders in some kind of store room at the bottom of the shop. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ a sing-song voice belonging to the legs shouted. ‘Have a wee browse and I’ll be down in a tick.’ Biddy was relieved to have the shop to herself. It meant she could just grab the first bra she saw and take it to the till and have her money ready to pay for it when Lorraine, or whoever the legs belonged to, appeared. She went to the closest rail and lifted the first bra. It was white, which she thought was good, as her vests were all white – at least they used to be. But she hadn’t expected it to be just as frilly, or quite so big. She picked up another one. It was cream, and not so frilly, but looked really big too. She was sure her breasts wouldn’t fit into either of them. Maybe she wasn’t ready for a bra after all. ‘Nearly done,’ the voice shouted. ‘Just want to finish this stock take.’ Biddy didn’t know what the lady was talking about, but she began to worry that this wasn’t going to be as straightforward as she’d hoped. Panic rose in her chest. Maybe one of the bras in a box would be better. She turned to the shelf behind her, knocking her elbow on the edge of it as she did. There were rows of boxes marked with numbers and letters. The pictures on the boxes looked less frilly, but the numbers and letters confused her. There were so many. What did they all mean? How was she supposed to know? And how much did bras cost anyway? She should never have come into the shop. Who did she think she was? How had she ever thought she’d be able to buy herself a bra, especially from here? Weirdos weren’t meant to buy bras, or come into shops like this. She needed to leave now before the lady came down the ladders and screamed at her to get out.

  She turned and ran, knocking over the rail of frilly bras as she did. She ran out of the shop, and down the High Street, and kept running until she got to the beach, where she threw herself on the farthest rock she could find, retching with shame and pain and exhaustion.

  As they ate their sausages and champ that evening, Biddy wondered what her father would say if he knew the meat had come from Dempster’s, the new butcher’s on Market Lane, and not McDaid’s, or what his reaction would be if she said to him, ‘Papa, I think I might need a bra.’

  Now sitting here opposite Miss Jordan, she felt as stupid and ashamed as she’d felt that day in Lorraine’s. Why did she get herself into these situations? Would she never learn? Could she not just accept that as a weirdo she would never be able to do normal things, and leave it at that? She swallowed hard and pressed her palms hard into the sockets of her eyes, desperate to keep the vomit down and the tears at bay.

  ‘Biddy?’ said Penny softly. ‘Biddy, are you OK? Biddy, what’s wrong? Please look at me.’

  She put her hands up to Biddy’s and gently pulled them away from her face. Her eyes were screwed shut, but her lashes glistened with tears and her pale cheeks were almost translucent. Oh crap, she thought, what had she done?

  ‘Biddy,’ she said again, more forcefully this time.

  Biddy jolted and opened her eyes, a huge tear pushing out of each one. Penny picked up one of the paper napkins on the table and dabbed the tears away. ‘Oh, Biddy, I’m so sorry, pet,’ she sighed. ‘I really didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just, well, I remember what it’s like. If I hadn’t had my auntie to help me, I wouldn’t have known about these things either,’ she smiled gently, and handed Biddy a fresh napkin. ‘Please, Biddy, you can trust me. I promise. I’m not trying to humiliate you, or interfere, or step on your father’s toes. It’s just that sometimes, as a girl, it’s, well, it’s good to have another girl on your side.’ Biddy blew her nose and exhaled loudly. ‘There now,’ soothed Penny, ‘big deep breath. That’s my girl. No more tears, eh?’

  She smiled at Biddy again and, miraculously, as Biddy settled, a half smile gradually formed on her lips. Penny’s heart lurched. She took Biddy’s hand and squeezed it, beaming back, and before she knew what she was doing, a thought danced through her head and out of her mouth.

  ‘Listen, Biddy, are you busy next Saturday?’

  Standing in the queue at the supermarket café, waiting to be served, a well-dressed woman in her early forties had been quietly observing the scene. She recognised Penny Jordan as the new P.E. teacher at her daughter’s school and she was pretty sure the girl with her was that strange child in Alison’s class – Biddy something or other. Just last week at the Young Wives meeting, Margaret Boal had told them she’d heard through someone at Ivan’s office, who knew someone who used to work at the college in the city, that Miss Jordan was one of those lesbian types. She hadn’t believed it, of course. It couldn’t possibly be true. It was far too ridiculous for words. ‘Oh really, Margaret,’ she had laughed, ‘do you honestly think someone like that would be employed at Ballybrock Grammar? Especially as a P.E. teacher? Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Duncan would never allow it.’ Felicity Flemming was in fact very put out that Margaret Boal had provided the group with such a juicy snippet of gossip, no matter
how unlikely the truth was. Felicity prided herself on being the number one bearer of news, and didn’t take kindly to anyone else stealing the limelight. Now, as she placed an almond square on her plate, her eyes widened in disbelief. Whatever the teacher and the girl were talking about looked very intense indeed. The girl put her hands up to her face and the teacher took them down again. Then the teacher wiped the girl’s face with a napkin. And then, then, the teacher took the girl’s hand in her own. Well, I never, she thought, as she moved up the queue. She was still certain the rumours were preposterous, as, quite frankly, she was inclined to believe that lesbianism was nothing more than a myth. But even so, the fact that a teacher and a pupil were fraternising together in public outside of school was simply staggering. It was unprofessional. Unacceptable. Unbelievable. Except, of course, she had witnessed it with her very own eyes. As she reached the till, her heart fluttered in anticipation of this week’s Young Wives meeting.

  12.

  Biddy stood on the edge of the bath and peered into the big oval mirror that hung above the sink, arms outstretched to help her balance. There were no full-length mirrors in the house, and the one on her bedroom dressing table was too small to give a decent view. Not that she’d ever needed one before. Even in the changing room earlier today she hadn’t wanted to look in the mirror. But now she did. Now it was time to see her body.

  She didn’t know what to make of the sight that greeted her. The pitiful spectacle started at her knees, which stuck out like two roughly peeled potatoes. The pasty skin that covered her spindly thighs was decorated with tiny pink scars forming an uneven pattern broken only by the odd yellow scab. Her pointy pelvic bones and concave belly were covered by a pair of saggy blue-grey pants she’d had since she was eleven. Every bone on her protruding rib cage was visible, like a female body builder or a Biafran baby. But then, there it was; gleaming white cotton with a tiny trim of shiny lace and fine elastic straps. Her bra. Her very own bra. Proof that no matter what the rest of her body looked like, she was definitely going to be a woman. She might still be a bloody weirdo, but at least she had breasts that needed a bra, just like Alison and the others. And just like them she now wore a bra too. She could almost be normal.