by Lesley Allen
Penny Jordan had taken Biddy to Rankin and McMordie, the big department store in the city. The smaller one in Collingsford would have been more convenient, but Penny felt there was less chance of being spotted in the city. Despite being certain she was doing a good deed, she still had an uneasy feeling. Developing relationships with pupils outside of school was definitely frowned upon.
She’d arranged to meet Biddy outside the store at 11 a.m. It was exactly a week after their chance encounter in the café. That meeting had given her the opportunity to organise this one. Naturally she hadn’t told Sam where she was going, as she knew she would only try to dissuade her. And in truth, she might just have just succeeded.
This is sheer bloody madness, Penny thought to herself, as she waited for Biddy to arrive. But she couldn’t back out now. She’d managed to secure Biddy’s confidence and to let her down at this stage would be devastating for the girl. Besides, it was only a bra, for God’s sake, not kinky underwear! And the girl really needed a bra. And she really wanted to help. And it wasn’t as though she was paying; Biddy was buying it herself. She said she had money: savings in her piggy bank.
So why was she feeling so goddamned uncomfortable about the whole thing? She spotted Biddy’s wild copper hair bobbing its way through the crowded street before her anxious face came into view. Her pale complexion was almost grey with fear. She looked terrified; like she might turn and run away at any moment. Penny watched as Biddy’s eyes darted down to the pavement after accidentally catching someone’s gaze, and her stomach wrenched as Biddy almost walked into a lamppost.
‘Biddy,’ she shouted, ‘over here.’
Biddy looked up to see Miss Jordan waving at her from the doorway of the store. She looked so pretty in her dark denim jeans and matching jacket. She even had a matching denim bag slung across her shoulder. And her turquoise T-shirt made her eyes sparkle like two sapphire gems. Instantly unnerved, Biddy stopped abruptly, suddenly unable to move. People tutted as they bumped into her, but she didn’t notice. She was thinking about her own clothes. Pale blue elasticised cotton trousers which were too big around the waist and sat above her ankles. A cream nylon shirt with a round collar. A baggy, navy blue cardigan with two missing buttons. And to top it off, her white school P.E. plimsolls. She had no handbag, just a plastic bag full of change which was heavily weighing her down, making her walk with a slightly lopsided limp. Biddy had never considered her appearance before, but as she looked at Miss Jordan standing waving at her in her nice smart outfit, she knew with absolute certainty that she looked ridiculous. It was like a punch in the stomach. She wanted to turn and run, but suddenly Miss Jordan was standing in front of her, saying something she couldn’t hear because of the rushing noise in her ears; and before she knew it they were in the store going up a moving staircase.
Biddy had never been on an escalator before and it took her by surprise. She felt the panic rise in her throat and the sickness churn in her tummy as she looked back at the people below moving further away from her. She closed her eyes and wished she was a bird who could fly away. She didn’t like this place. She didn’t like the city, or the department store or this moving staircase. There were too many people. There was too much noise. She wanted to go home. She’d lied to her father for the second Saturday in a row, and she felt wicked and ashamed. She had to get out of here: now.
‘Are you OK, Biddy?’ Penny’s concerned voice jolted her back to reality. Biddy realised that she couldn’t go home. Not now. Not when Miss Jordan had gone to so much trouble to organise this. How could she let Miss Jordan down? She was the only person apart from her father who had ever shown an interest in her. So she swallowed hard, nodded her head and smiled weakly.
‘I thought you were going to fall on me there. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Fine, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘Just felt a bit dizzy.’
‘Did you have any breakfast, Biddy?’
‘A bit,’ nodded Biddy.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what, when we’re done here I’ll take you to a little place I love that serves a fab brunch. Deal?’ Biddy nodded and forced her mouth into a smile. She had no idea what a brunch was, or what it tasted like, but if Miss Jordan got her one, she would do her best to eat it. Maybe by then she wouldn’t feel sick.
‘There’s the underwear department over there.’
Biddy gulped as Miss Jordan steered her in the direction of rows of bras and pants in white and black and pink and red and baby blue, the memory of Lorraine’s Lingerie giving her palpitations. But the section was so vast it made Lorraine’s Lingerie shop look like a market stall. Everything looked so pretty, so delicate and much less flamboyant than in Lorraine’s. She had been so scared that she would feel overwhelmed again, terrified she would throw up in front of Miss Jordan, but rather than feeling sick, having her teacher with her was easing her anxiety. This time she wanted to touch the lacy cups and stroke the silk of the knickers. They were all so very beautiful, not as garish and terrifying as the ones in Lorraine’s. She wanted to hold the fabrics up to her skin and breathe them in. But just as she was about to pick up a soft blue bra she froze. A tall slender shop assistant, with hair like Marilyn Monroe and glossy red lips suddenly bounced in front of them.
‘Good morning, madam,’ the assistant said to Miss Jordan in a voice pitched so high that she was almost singing. ‘And what can we do for you and your, ah,’ she hesitated, ‘your little sister today?’ She clasped her hands beneath her chin and fixed the full intensity of her gaze on Biddy.
Biddy jumped back, startled, and looked at Miss Jordan, who, registering the panic in her eyes quickly replied: ‘Erm, it’s OK, thank you. We’re just browsing at the minute.’
‘Not a problem,’ sang the bra lady. ‘I’ll be right here if you need me for anything, and remember: it’s better to measure, and do try before you buy. Our changing rooms are just behind you; three items at a time.’ Her red lips pouted slightly, as she took in Biddy’s appearance before turning her attention to a glamorous woman behind them.
‘Right then, “little sister”,’ Miss Jordan winked. Biddy grinned, thinking how truly wonderful it would be to really have Miss Jordan as her big sister. ‘This is the starter section, and I think you’re probably about a 28A. Or maybe a 30A. Tell you what, why don’t you pick one or two bras you like in both sizes and then you can go and try them on. I’ll help you pick out a couple, and then I’ll head over there to the gift section while you’re in the changing room. I need to get a present for someone and I thought I might get a nice photo-frame or something here. I don’t really think we need bother Miss Red Lips, do you?’
Biddy smiled and nodded, relieved that Miss Jordan didn’t expect to join her in the trying on process. And if the red-lipped bra lady had insisted on measuring her, unlikely as it was, she knew she would have run down the moving stairs and right out of the door. No one, absolutely no one, must see her scars.
Penny felt a little more relaxed by now. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. They could go for a bite to eat, she’d deliver Biddy back to the station, and then she could do a bit of shopping herself. She fancied a new jacket and could do with some nice Nike trainers for work. ‘Now then,’ she smiled at Biddy, ‘how much money do you have, so we know what our budget is?’
Biddy handed her the plastic bag, relieved to be rid of the uncomfortable weight. It contained over two years of pocket money saved for nothing in particular. The only things she spent her money on were sketchpads and pencils when she needed them, and, since her period started, a few packets of Dr. Whites.
‘Gosh, Biddy,’ laughed Penny, ‘did you raid your money box?’
‘Yes,’ came the deadpan reply.
Penny opened the bag and looked inside. It was filled with ten-pence pieces. ‘Bloody hell,’ she thought, working very hard to suppress a giggle, ‘there must be nearly twenty quid here. Let’s hope the assistant at the till is in a good mood.’ She looked up at Biddy, who was st
aring at her expectantly, waiting to be told what to do next. The naked innocence on her face twisted Penny’s heart.
‘Well, Biddy,’ she smiled, with all the positivity and encouragement she could muster, ‘this is great. Fantastic. You could even buy two bras. Or maybe you’d like a new T-shirt or something nice for the disco. Now that would be a good idea, wouldn’t it?’
Biddy continued to nod at the appropriate moments, still not trusting herself to speak, in case the wrong words came out. She wasn’t going to the disco, but she didn’t need to remind Miss Jordan of that now. So she pointed at two bras she thought were pretty and before she knew it she was in the changing room with both of them, plus another picked by Miss Jordan herself. That was the one she bought. Not because Miss Jordan had chosen it, but because it was by far the most comfortable of the three.
Biddy arrived home that afternoon with her new bra, a pair of denim jeans, the first she’d ever owned, and a long-sleeved blue and white stripy top with a slash neck. ‘Now you’re all set for the disco,’ Miss Jordan had said as she left her at the station. ‘A wee touch of blusher to highlight those cheekbones and you’ll be the belle of the ball.’
Blusher, cheekbones, ‘belle of the ball’, bra, jeans, brunch. Biddy’s head was spinning with new words and new experiences. She had bought her very own bra and her first pair of real jeans with her very own money. She had eaten a brunch of bacon and scrambled eggs and a funny kind of bread with a funny name and had a frothy coffee and she hadn’t even felt sick once. And someone had thought that Miss Jordan was her big sister. And, best of all, she’d been invited to Miss Jordan’s house for a baking lesson in a couple of weeks’ time. Her actual own house, to do some proper actual baking. The teacher hadn’t laughed when Biddy admitted that she didn’t know how to bake, as the subject of the cake sale had been brought up again over their ‘brunch’. ‘Well, we’ll have to sort that then, won’t we?’ she’d said, pulling out her diary. ‘How about you come to mine and help me with my fairy cakes? With your artistic flair, I bet you’ll be an ace cake decorator. I can’t do next weekend, and the Saturday after that I’m on the clearing-up rota after the disco. So how about the following one? Saturday 8th June? Would that suit? It’s the week before the sale.’ Biddy didn’t know if she was more astonished by the invitation, or by Miss Jordan’s reference to her drawing, the second time she’d complimented her on it, but she did know that this was by far the best day she had ever had. And she didn’t want it to end. So when she got off the bus at Ballybrock station, she headed straight for the big chemist shop before going home. Maybe she would go to the disco after all, and if she did, she ought to buy some blusher.
Penny was relieved when she waved Biddy off at the station. It had gone well, much better than she’d expected it to, but she felt exhausted. She’d managed to persuade the girl to buy some new clothes as well as the bra, and she’d watched her eat a decent lunch too. Not that she thought Biddy was starving herself, or that Mr Weir was deliberately neglecting the nutritional needs of his teenage daughter. She just had a suspicion that, more often than not, Biddy either forgot to eat or couldn’t be bothered, and that her father simply didn’t notice. Anyway, at least she would look semi-decent at the disco in her new clothes. Even though they weren’t high fashion, they weren’t from a charity shop either, so there was less of a chance that Alison and her gang would take the piss out of her. Thankfully she hadn’t bumped into anyone she knew, or, more importantly, anyone from school. OK, perhaps inviting Biddy to her house to help her bake had been a bit of a step too far; but then again, what harm could it do. She felt she had made a genuine connection with Biddy, and knew the girl responded well to her. It was even more obvious now that she needed some form of female influence in her life. She’d chosen the 8th as Sam would be at her parents’ that weekend for their wedding anniversary party, so there’d be no need to tell her. It would be a good distraction for her.
Penny felt so pleased with herself that she headed straight back to the store to buy a pair of black lacy pants she’d spotted earlier. ‘Yup,’ she thought, holding them up against her, ‘Sam is really going to like these.’
Unbeknown to Penny, a couple of hours earlier, Susan Patterson had been holding up the very same pair for her husband, Clive, to inspect. ‘What about these ones, honey?’ she said, ‘and look, there’s a gorgeous bra to match.’ When she got no response, she turned to see her husband standing with his back to her. ‘Clive,’ she hissed, ‘you’re supposed to be helping me choose. Don’t be a shit. You promised.’
This was Susan’s payback day for her husband’s third night out with ‘the boys’ in less than two weeks. A new outfit with shoes, a bag and underwear to match. And she intended to squeeze in some jewellery and perfume as well. She suspected Clive was having another fling with someone at school. And he suspected that she suspected. So he suggested one of their shopping trips, which suited Susan just fine. She didn’t really care about his little infidelities, as she had her own secret liaisons with the junior doctors at the hospital where she worked. But when Clive flexed his credit card at her, he always seemed so much more attractive.
‘Clive!’ she said again between gritted teeth, pulling at his elbow. But Clive wasn’t listening. Clive was watching Penny Jordan, the new P.E. teacher at school, standing at the till buying a bra for that weird girl in Alison’s class. At least that’s what it looked like. She was counting out ten-pence pieces on the counter, and the girl was standing beside her holding a bra. Just last night, Alison had told him the rumour about Penny being a ‘lesbo’. And here she was, right in front of his eyes, buying a fucking bra for a fourth year, fucked-up weirdo. Bloody hell! It made what he was up to seem like nothing at all.
‘Clive!’ Susan almost shouted this time.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said, scratching his head as he turned to face the black skimpy panties she was holding up for his inspection.
‘Does that mean you like them, or you don’t?’
13.
When her balance became unsteady, Biddy jumped down onto the bumpy bathroom lino and pulled on her dressing gown. She took a small paper bag from her pocket and tipped the contents onto the old rickety table beside the sink. A pale pink Miners lipstick, rose-coloured blusher, blue-black mascara and bright blue eye-shadow. The girl in the chemist shop said Miners was the best for teenagers, and that these colours were all the rage. Biddy hadn’t asked for help, but the girl, Debbie, as her name badge said, decided she needed it.
Biddy didn’t know where to start. Perhaps she should have let Debbie do a demonstration after all, as she’d wanted to do, then at least she’d know what to do with the stuff. She knew all the other girls at the disco would look perfect. She opened the jar of eye-shadow, rubbed her forefinger into the blue powder and smeared it once across both eyelids. Next was the lipstick. The shiny pink stick looked good enough to eat. She ran the tip of it over her lips in a circular motion as though she was colouring in, half expecting it to taste like a sweet: a bonbon, or a strawberry sherbet. She used her forefinger again to apply the cream blusher, smearing a rosy stripe, tinted blue from the remnants of the eye-shadow, below her cheekbones. Then she rubbed each cheek roughly in a circular motion, spreading the now purplish colour across most of her face. Finally she twisted out the long mascara brush, closed her eyes and rubbed it left to right across both sets of lashes. She had difficulty opening her eyes as her lashes instantly clogged together with lumps of the black liquid. She blinked furiously, her eyes stinging from bits of mascara that had escaped from her lashes. Now it was time to look in the mirror.
If Gracie Weir had not run away, she would, no doubt, have witnessed the scene that her daughter was now surveying at some stage of Biddy’s younger life, just as most mothers who have little girls and bulging make-up bags inevitably do. But Biddy was fifteen, not five, and this make-up was hers, not her mother’s. Yet the effect was virtually the same. And Biddy knew it. Her tears pulled streaks of blac
k mascara with them as they ran down her cheeks, dripped off her chin and splashed onto her chest, staining her new crisp white bra. She rubbed furiously at her face, the blue and pink and purple colours blending with wet black tears like a toddler’s first painting. ‘Bloody Weirdo’, she sobbed, rubbing at her face with the backs of her hands before collapsing on the bathroom floor. ‘Bloody, bloody, fucking, Bloody Weirdo.’
14.
Biddy was shaking as she put her fifty-pence piece down on the table. ‘Hand!’ said a boy wearing a large white T-shirt with ‘FRANKIE SAYS RELAX’ slashed across it in bold black letters. His hair was stiffly swept back from his forehead and Biddy was sure he was wearing make-up, which confused her. She recognised him as a boy in her year, but didn’t know his name. She was sure he didn’t wear make-up at school, though. Did that make him a bit weird like her, she wondered? Or was it a normal thing that boys did? One of the many normal things that she just didn’t know about? Then a similar-looking boy, who wore a similar T-shirt, except his said ‘CHOOSE LIFE’, appeared at the door of the staff cloakroom. Biddy’s heart thumped. He was wearing make-up too, but just around his eyes. ‘Coat,’ he said, thrusting his arm out towards her.
Biddy winced and leant backwards.
‘Are you going to give me your coat, or what?’ snarled the boy.
Biddy thrust her navy blue Pac A Mac at him, then immediately regretted it. She should just leave now. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t be here. She coughed, trying to push the acidy feeling away.