by Lesley Allen
As Biddy pushed open the dormitory door, she briefly scanned the room. The scene was pretty similar to the one last night, only this time it didn’t hold the same fascination. Georgina, Jackie and Julia were lying on Julia’s bunk, flicking through a magazine. They were making the same familiar oohing and aahing noises that Jill and Nicola had been making last night. Vanessa Park was putting blue eye-shadow on Jane Gilbert’s eyelids. Pamela Brown was brushing Karen Robinson’s long black hair. Jill Cleaver was rifling through her rucksack looking for something. Clare Watson was showing Angela Duggan and Kathy Young her newly pierced ears which she thought might have gone septic. And Nicola appeared to be writing in her diary. There was no sign of Alison. Biddy scuttled over to her bunk, head down, teeth tightly clenched and pulled her case out from under her bunk. She hoped no one would notice her.
‘Oh my God,’ exclaimed Georgina loudly, ‘what is that smell. Did somebody drop one? Oh. It’s only B.W. God, has anyone got any perfume?’ Some of the girls sniggered. Most just carried on doing what they were doing. Georgina tried again.
‘Seriously, has anyone noticed the stink coming from B.W.’s bed? Like cat’s wee? Maybe she wet herself.’
Julia and Jackie giggled.
‘Hey, B.W. Did you wet the bed last night?’
Biddy’s back was turned away from Julia’s bunk. She started to shake and felt her cheeks flush with hot embarrassment. How did they know? she thought. She had stayed in bed that morning, with the quilt pulled over her head, waiting until all the other girls went into the bathroom together to use the toilet, have a wash and clean their teeth. She knew there was no one in the room to see her pull on her clean pants and trousers or stuff her damp pyjama bottoms under her pillow. Was there a smell? She couldn’t tell. Had they looked under her pillow? She swallowed hard several times.
‘Give over, Georgina, would you?’ said Karen.
Biddy was surprised. No one ever spoke back to Alison or Georgina, but since they’d been here, Karen Robinson had done it to both of them.
Georgina herself was furious. She could never muster up the same enthusiasm from the others for goading Biddy as Alison could, a fact which always irked her. She glared at Biddy hoping to evoke a reaction at least from her, a sign that she was scared. But Biddy always looked scared, so Georgina didn’t know if she was getting to her or not. She shrugged her shoulders in a ‘see-if-I-care’ kind of way, and returned her attention to the pictures of Duran Duran in Julia’s Jackie magazine.
Biddy snatched her sketchbook and pencils from the case, shoved it back under the bunk, and slunk out of the room, keeping her head bent low, not wanting to risk eye contact with anyone. She was so relieved that Alison hadn’t been there. Alison would probably somehow have discovered that Biddy really had wet herself. In her hurry to get away from the dorm and back to the birds, she lost her bearings. Turning left at the end of the corridor instead of right, she ended up on an unfamiliar large square landing. There were corridors running off in three directions, a staircase leading up to the next floor and two more flights of stairs at both sides of the landing going down. Disorientated, Biddy circled the landing before deciding to take the narrower of the two downstairs staircases, reckoning that there was less of a chance she would bump into anyone on that one. Just as she reached the turn halfway down, she heard the sound of laughter coming from above. It was a girl’s laughter, light and high. Then someone’s voice – a man’s, low and deep.
Biddy stopped and backed up against the banister, afraid of getting caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. The laughter came again. Instinctively she looked up, and there standing against the banister right above her head was Mr Patterson. And he was holding onto Alison. Then Alison reached up and ran her fingers through Mr Patterson’s hair. Alison giggled and Mr Patterson made a sort of groaning noise. ‘Christ, you’re gorgeous,’ he said in a low, croaky voice. ‘You’re so fucking hot.’
Biddy swallowed hard. She didn’t want to see this. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to know this. She wanted to un-see and un-hear and un-know, and never think of it again. Terrified to move in case they heard her, she held her breath and closed her eyes tight, willing them to disappear. But when she opened her eyes again, she couldn’t help but look up, and saw Mr Patterson kissing Alison on the mouth. And Alison was kissing him back. Biddy had never seen people kissing like this before, not in real life anyway, and whilst the idea of kissing did intrigue her, she wished she wasn’t witnessing these two people doing it. Not them, not here, not now. Why did she look? Why? She closed her eyes again and squeezed them tight, still afraid to move. This was wrong. This was all so wrong. Alison and Mr Patterson were responsible for what happened to Miss Jordan. He was the one who had told Mr Duncan about the day in Rankin and McMordie. Alison was the one who told the Principal that Miss Jordan had been helping her in the toilets. How could they do that? How could they make something that was so nice and so good and so completely innocent look so ugly and bad and wrong – when they were doing this? When they’d probably been doing this all along? In those few seconds, Biddy Weir wasn’t scared of Alison Flemming; she hated her. She hated her and she wanted her to pay for what she did. An unfamiliar rage pumped through her veins with such ferocity she felt that she might burst. But then she made a fatal error: she looked up again. The kissing had stopped, and Alison’s head was resting on Mr Patterson’s shoulder, her fingers still trailing through his hair. But she was staring down at Biddy, her hazel eyes brimming with venom. ‘Weirdo,’ she mouthed, slowly, deliberately. Then she closed her lips and ran her index finger along them in a menacing ‘zip it’ motion. And just like that, the unfamiliar sense of bravado Biddy had felt a few seconds earlier vanished, and the fear was back.
Biddy turned and ran down the rest of the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, she raced along a narrow corridor, past a scullery and some store rooms, until she eventually came to a fire door at the bottom which led her outside. She kept on running up the driveway and past the greenhouse, and past the birch tree, until, breathless and shaking, she came across a huge oak tree, and collapsed behind it, vomiting up the pitiful amount of food in her stomach.
24.
‘Biddddeee! Biddddeee! Biddddeee Weir!’
Biddy was still crouched behind the tree, hugging her knees, trying to make sense of what she’d seen, of what she now knew was going on between Alison and Mr Patterson, when she heard Mrs Abbott calling her name. Startled, she glanced at her watch. It was twenty to six. She was late for dinner, but there was no way she was going down to the house. Not now. She felt confused, and disorientated. She knew what she wasn’t going to do, but had no idea what she was going to do. Above her, a crow squawked twice. Biddy looked up at it and instinctively relaxed, albeit ever so slightly.
‘Bidddeee! Where are you?! For goodness’ sake, you’re missing dinner. Bidddeee!’
Biddy was surprised that anyone had actually noticed she wasn’t there. She felt a wave of nausea again. Alison would definitely be planning something now. She’d be busy working out how to make sure that Biddy kept quiet about seeing her and Mr Patterson kissing. Not that she would tell anyone. What would she say, and who would she say it to? And who would believe her anyway? No one would ever take her word over Alison’s. Ever. But she knew that Alison wouldn’t take her silence for granted, and that whatever plan she came up with, it would most likely be worse than anything she’d done before.
Biddy stood up and peered round the side of the tree. She could see Mrs Abbott walking back towards the front door of the house, shaking her head and raising her hands up to her shoulders in a shrug directed at Mr Boyd, who was now standing at the top of the steps. Mrs Abbott went into the house and Mr Boyd stood looking around for a second or two and then followed her. She didn’t know what to do next. There was no trace of hunger in her stomach now at all, just waves of nervous cramps. Her heart was thudding, her head spinning, her hands shaking. If she did go back to the house now and ve
ntured into the dining room, she’d be told off for being late, and she couldn’t face seeing everyone staring and sniggering at her. She wouldn’t be able to eat. And she really, really couldn’t bear the thought of Alison’s menacing stares. She couldn’t go inside, she knew that for sure. But what else should she do? She sat down on the grass, then immediately stood up again, her back pressed against the tree, biting her lips and clenching her fists. Her pad and pencils lay, unused, at her feet. Her breathing accelerated and the sound of her banging heart grew louder. She felt herself becoming dizzy. She reached into the front pocket of her jeans, drew out the small silver tin, opened it, took out the longest needle and stabbed it through the denim into her thigh – two, three, four times. The thick fabric slowed down the force of the jab, but the effect was still enough to bring an immediate flood of relief. Biddy’s heartbeat slowed down, the rushing noise in her ears faded and the dizzy feeling seeped away.
Exhausted, Biddy slid down the fat tree trunk and slumped back onto the ground. There had been a heavy shower earlier that afternoon and the clumpy grass around the rim of the trunk was still damp from the dripping leaves. Her bottom was getting wet from the repeated bouts of sitting down, but this time she didn’t quite have the energy to stand up again. Resting her head against the tree, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the chattering birds and the swish of the branches swaying in the evening breeze. She felt calmer, but still didn’t know what to do next.
If I was a bird, she thought, I could fly up to the top of the mountain, right now, and they would never see me again.
The sudden sound of noisy, raucous squawking jolted her from her thoughts. A group of four or five big black crows were circling above her, screeching and calling. Are they talking to me? she wondered. ‘Hey,’ she called, ‘are you talking to me?’ The birds seemed to multiply in seconds. There must have been thirty of them, maybe even forty. Biddy found it impossible to count. They perched in groups, balancing on treetops, telephone lines, chimney pots and the roof of the greenhouse. Their screeches were almost deafening. Biddy wondered if the birds had come to tell her something. Perhaps they were here to help her escape from this latest nightmare. Yes, that must be it. She was certain. An enormous crow landed beside her and picked at something on the ground.
‘Hello, bird,’ said Biddy quietly. The crow looked at her, right into her eyes and squawked three times. Biddy held its gaze. ‘Help me, will you?’ she asked. ‘Tell me what to do.’ The bird gave another squawk, then flew up to the roof of the greenhouse where it strutted for a few seconds before flying off in the direction of the mountain, followed by the rest of the flock. They vanished almost as quickly as they had appeared, and, in an instant, Biddy knew exactly what she had to do.
She slid the tin of pins back inside her jeans pocket, tucked her sketchpad and pencil box under her arm, took a deep breath and started walking up the driveway, glancing behind her every few seconds to check that no one was following. Just as she reached the gates, she saw Mrs Abbott, Mr Patterson and Mr Boyd all standing on the steps together and quickly darted down behind the old stone wall which ran around the grounds of the house. She was too far away to hear properly, but she could faintly make out her name.
‘Bideeeee! Bideeeee!’
As they called it over and over again, it suddenly occurred to Biddy just how much her name sounded like ‘Birdy’. How had she never realised that before? Holding her breath, she peered above the wall and watched from behind a tendril of ivy as the three teachers went back inside the house. She breathed a sigh of relief – they hadn’t seen her, then she looked around, trying to get her bearings, not entirely sure how to get onto the path they had taken earlier. She hadn’t taken that much notice of the actual route this morning, lingering at the back of the group, drinking up what she could of her surroundings. Now, as she started up the narrow road which she thought might lead her onto the mountain path, she thought about the falcons, the most glorious birds she had ever laid eyes on, and hoped they would still be there, waiting for her, when she arrived.
As soon as she reached the stream and saw the stepping-stone boulders daubed with blue paint by someone called Billy in April 1981, she knew she was definitely on the right path. This was the start of Paddy’s Wall. She carried on, running now, until she came to the mound of stones which marked Paddy’s grave, and slumped down, breathless, beside the wooden cross, running her hand over the roughly carved inscription. As she picked at a thick bunch of wild flowers growing around the base of the stones, which smelt strong, like chives, she thought about Paddy Joyce and the story that Mr Price had told them earlier that day, and she wondered why Rory had called him a bloody weirdo. Was it just because he had liked to be on the mountain? Biddy couldn’t see anything weird about that. Or was it because he built walls? But men were always building walls in Ballybrock, especially in the places where all the new houses were being made on the outskirts of the town. She couldn’t work it out. People knew who she was. They could see her, so it was obvious that she was a weirdo. But Rory couldn’t see Paddy Joyce. She shivered. It was getting chilly, and she suddenly wished she’d lifted her cardigan when she went to get her sketchpad. She looked around the mountain. It was still, and gloriously silent, apart from the occasional distant bleating of a few stray sheep. There were no birds, she realised with a jolt. She couldn’t hear any birds. Where had all the birds gone?
The light had started to dim and the sky seemed to be moving closer to her. For the first time, she felt a twinge of apprehension. Maybe she was making a mistake. Maybe she should turn back. No. No, that wasn’t an option. She couldn’t go back there. She never wanted to see Alison Flemming again. Ever. What she needed to do was get a move on if she was going to get there before dark.
Biddy stood up and stared at the inscription on the cross. ‘Goodbye, Paddy Joyce,’ she said aloud. Suddenly an image of Miss Jordan popped into her head. Penny Jordan. Paddy Joyce. P.J. P.J. Paddy Joyce wasn’t a bloody weirdo. He couldn’t have been. He’d been a good man, gentle and kind and nice, she knew it. And somehow she was equally as certain that if he’d known her, he would have been her friend.
A familiar sound echoed across the mountain. Biddy looked up to see a raven circling high above her, its cry bouncing across the inky sky. Her apprehension vanished. She was safe on Innis. And if Paddy Joyce was here, then he would look after her. Paddy Joyce, and the birds.
25.
Biddy was out of breath and a little light-headed by the time she reached Clundaff Point. She sat down on the rock where she had eaten her sandwiches at lunchtime and pulled her arms around her knees. The falcons were nowhere to be seen. She looked at her watch. It was nearly ten to eight. Over two hours had passed since she’d heard Mrs Abbott call her name from the steps of the big house. How had the time passed so quickly? She must have spent longer sitting by Paddy Joyce’s grave than she’d realised.
She turned her head and peered down the path she’d just climbed up. There was the wall, winding down the mountain in the distance. In this light, it looked more like a dragon’s tail than a snail trail. It still looked wonderful, though. Biddy screwed her eyes tightly shut and imagined the dragon wall was flying up to Clundaff Point and dipping down so she could climb on board. The wall-tail became a whole dragon, and Paddy Joyce was sitting on its back. He turned to her and tipped his cap. It was the same one that her father wore. He took something from his pocket and ate it. She thought it might have been a Kimberley biscuit.
Biddy opened her eyes. She’d love to have a Kimberley biscuit right now. She was starting to feel really cold and very hungry, and she had a sudden ache for her father. If he were here with her now, he would probably have brought a packet of Kimberley biscuits with him. He always had them when she needed one. She wondered if one of the teachers had phoned her father yet to tell him that she hadn’t shown up for dinner, which was disobeying the rules, and that he should come and collect her straight away.
They’d been told be
fore the trip that any pupil who badly misbehaved or was caught drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes would be severely dealt with. Their parents would be contacted and told to drive to Brook House to bring them home immediately. They might even face suspension. Biddy felt a stab of worry for her father. How would he even get to Brook House? Would he ask Mrs Thomas for a lift? And if she agreed, and brought him down here, what would he do when she wasn’t there? Even if Mrs Abbott and Mr Patterson and Mr Boyd kept on looking for her, they would never find her up here. But they’d probably have given up by now. They’d most likely forgotten all about her. They might not even realise that she’d really gone until tomorrow – if they realised at all. Tomorrow, she thought. What would she do about tomorrow?
Biddy hadn’t yet worked out a long-term plan for her escape. She had expected the birds to be here at Clundaff Point, waiting for her to arrive. She’d thought they would tell her what to do. She shivered. It was getting colder and the light was really fading now. What should she do? Should she carry on up the mountain, perhaps to the very top, to see if the birds were there? Or go back to the wall? Maybe Paddy Joyce would help her. Or should she stay here and wait? She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t concentrate.
She needed to concentrate.
Biddy stood up and walked closer to the edge of the rock face, looking up to the turret where the falcons had been earlier in the day. Dropping her sketchbook and pencils on the ground, she cupped her hands around her mouth.